Grand Theft Auto V: The Percival Job
by Shikidara
Summary: This story takes place five years after the events of Grand Theft Auto V, and finds all three of the main characters mired in corporate espionage; they must commit inception on the CEO of Merryweather Security Consulting, Don Percival, to stop the man from reclaiming his license for Merryweather to operate in the state once more.
1. The Union Depository

Grand Theft Auto V: The Percival Job

Chapter 1: The Union Depository's Aftermath

Aside from the occasional close calls of FIB agents just rudimentarily "roaming" the area of the men and women on the Union Depository bank job, relations between the feds and the criminals remained pretty dormant. The heads of the job, Lester Crest, Trevor Phillips, Michael Townley, and Franklin Clinton, had all escaped swimmingly, without any major heat arriving at their door sometime later. They'd made it; sixteen million dollars apiece. They couldn't spend it all in one place, of course; that'd just be conspicuous. However, letting that money go to waste would be economic heresy, an act of stupidity that none of the members of the trinity, evidently excluding Lester, would allow. This notion especially came into play for their next job, one that would be necessitated by their financial decadence.

It was their lucky day, too; at least, for Franklin and Trevor. The job that would send them to financial stability and responsibility would be supplied by an old friend, at least a friend to Michael, whom Mike would never want to see professionally ever again: Norton, Dave Norton. Seeing him again, Trevor didn't exactly get put in a good mood: the events preceding this meeting informed Trevor that Norton had been posing as his dead friend, Brad, for nearly 10 years. Although time had healed the emotional wound slightly, Trevor still held a powerful and vindictive vendetta towards the untrustworthy individual. But hell, if he wanted to kill Dave, he'd have to kill Mike too; both of them were equally responsible for this act of blatant treachery.

However, this wouldn't be any conventional heist; in fact, by some ironic fate, the group would be _giving_ something to the victim: an idea. Their target: Don Percival, CEO of Merryweather Security Consulting, a multinational corporation with soldiers for hire, mainly working for the American military. Or, as Trevor liked to refer to them, the Lizard Army, the mercenary group concocted to usher in the New World Order. The reason for their targeting of the major corporation was simple, especially for Trevor: Mr. Percival was getting plans together to resume operation within the state of San Andreas. This being cause for hostility against the mercenary group for Trevor, or, more specifically, "Trevor Phillips Industries," meant that Norton would have to intercede the situation, preventing any more mishaps between not only Trevor and Merryweather, but the entirety of the "three cunts" as well. To put it simply, if Trevor were to get involved, by some infamous development, Michael and Franklin would soon become embroiled as well. Norton couldn't have this, especially because of the fact that he couldn't have them taking scores again, not under his federal watch.

To complete the objective, they'd need a special piece of tech: the PASIV machine. For those that wish to evade colloquial ideals, this acronym stood for "Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device." This was an entirely new piece of technology in relation to corporate espionage, one that had just been put on the market for the criminal underworld of San Andreas, meaning that attempting any crime with it would be risky, especially a high-profile heist.

"25 million, each," Norton stated.

"Yeah, fuck you too, Davie. As I've said before, we are _done_. We were done working for you after that bout with those Merryweather goons. Got Trevor and I nearly killed. And now you're asking for **another **fucking favor...," Michael retorted.

"I wouldn't have to but in if I didn't know Trevor well enough, Michael. You and I both know that if Trevor—"

"I'm in the room, boys. At least _try_ to be courteous, seeing as how I should've had both of you put in the ground after finding out about Brad."

"Fellas, the way I see it, the way anyone greedy would see it, this is a good opportunity for all of us. Who wouldn't want to use 25 million dollars? That's more than we got from the Union lick," Franklin interjected.

"You know, Frankie does have a point. More money! More guns! More fuckin' tits and strip clubs, all we need to do is learn how to use this PASIV thingee," Trevor supported.

"Well, you all know what you have to do, then. I'll get the specs all planned out, get all the contacts we need; we'll probably need some really experienced people for this particular job. To provide a little more information, I'll need to tell you all what we're dealing with. This new piece of technology, one that was given to me by your friend Norton over there, allows you all to enter the dreams and thus, the subconscious of another individual, or victim in this case. Have any of you seen the movie 'Inception?'" Lester inquired.

"It's OKAY, not anything like the movies from my day."

"Your 40-year-old-virgin is showing, Mikee."

"Fuck you too, Trevor. Anyway, yeah, I seen it. Pretty good, but what's your point?"

"Surprised you all haven't caught on; to stop Percival from reclaiming his license to operate in the state for Merryweather again, we need to _convince_ him not to. We're doing it this way so that he doesn't ever decide to try for the license again. Deadly force obviously won't work because of the fact that we'd have Merryweather _Security Consulting_ up our asses. More goons than you three faced last time; about 100 times more. Besides, our last deadly threat didn't exactly do much to scare him off last time, over 5 years ago. That's _why_ we were commissioned."

"Sounds good. You got any contacts?" Franklin questioned.

"Unfortunately, that's the problem, Frankie. This being new-age tech that the criminal underworld, specifically of San Andreas, has only just yet been able to get their hands on, we may have to enlist the help of some corrupted government officials; it's 2013 all over again..."

"No, Lester. We're not doing that again. I've been close to death before, but that bout five years ago makes my other near-death experiences look like fucking teen angst."

"Yeah, Lest, bro, Michael's right this time...we ain't gonna handle that much heat again. We're older, and we're out of the game. How we just gonna pull another big one when the small ones can't even be handled by new blood we hear about every day?"

"Like it or not, assholes, I want my 25 mil. We're getting this done, especially since it'll help my meth business...and Ron. Ron too, maybe Wade. We're getting this done."

"Then I'll need all three of you to do research. Franklin, since you're a bit faster at the game at this point than the other two, I'll need you to get people for certain roles: we need people for the architect, the point-man, the forger, and some gunmen. I'll send you the details later. Michael, I'll need you to do some research on our target. Find out if he's matured against this type of espionage. My own sources tell me he's going to be tough. Trevor, I need you to research the geography of Los Santos, Blaine County, and Mount Chiliad. We'll be relaying those details to the architect we acquire. If any of you have any questions, please contact me as soon as you can. We need to move on this before the end of May. On June 1st, his license is finalized."


	2. May 1st

Chapter 2: May 1st

The last week of April came and went; Michael decided to tell his entire family that he had "important business" to attend to; at the time, Jimmy and Tracey had been at their respective universities. The only other resident of the house left was Amanda, and she knew what the cryptic message meant: she would have to get far away from her current location _extremely_ quickly.

Trevor told Ron to keep watch over the meth business while he was gone, and make sure that Wade didn't get into any trouble while he was still useful to Trevor's monetary prosperity.

Franklin, still not having moved on from Tanisha, didn't have anyone to make excuses to, making his part of the job much easier, as well as worlds more painful.

Lester prepared the plans for Michael to do some in-depth, close-proximity research on Percival, conveying his location among other peripherals.

"I'll need you to tail his daily routine through San Andreas. The more we know about where he goes, the less, hopefully not more, the smaller the maze the architect will have to construct the day we move on the job. This could possibly mean less of a cut, but you shouldn't hold your breath. On top of that, I'll need you to take notes on some of his emotional connections to other people; that could be useful...oh! Also, make sure to find as much information as possible on whether or not this guy's subconscious is militarized, we need to know how much ammunition we need to bring into the actual dream sequence. All in all, we'll be creating three dream layers, with a fourth layer for limbo, which you _do not_ want to venture to unless you've been there before. I'll get someone on that too."

"Christ, Lester, that's a lot of shit. Can't you just give some to Trevor? He's a lot better at tailing people than I am."

"Eh...do you honestly trust Trevor with much all these years later? I mean, I too am surprised that he didn't kill you over Brad, or, rather, hasn't yet. "

"I suppose you're right...for the sake of saving me some work, you know anything about this Percival guy?"

"Specifically, I know about his militarized subconscious to a nonspecific degree. He's been training for this type of stuff since the Union Depository; _5 years._ This could possibly mean that deception **will not** be on our side come the day of the job. That being said, we're going to have to daze and confuse this guy as quickly as possible; either that or gain his trust in some strange fashion."

"Well, that should work just fine; we haven't met. None of the three of us have ever actually met this guy; we only know what he looks like because of Google and what-not. This means that we can gain his trust in the physical world, possibly translating that trust into the dream world once we get down to that level. That reminds me; we're going to need some sort of sedative, a powerful sedative, aren't we?"

"Already thought of it, Mike. I know a guy...name's Yusuf, in Mombasa. Going to have to take a flight there to pick up the sedatives; can't bring him, though. He was on a job just like this about 8 years ago, went pretty well. Unfortunately, however, some motherfuckers couldn't keep their mouths shut, so he's going to be useless on the actual 'heist.' What we're going to need is an expert on anesthetics and these types of anesthesia in general; can't have the sedatives in the dream state going haywire because of a dumbass that doesn't know how to concoct them. He should also be a good driver; if he isn't, we'll find someone else."

"Lest, you can understand, I'm a little worried here. If Percival even catches a whiff of this development, we'll have the whole of Merryweather breaking down our doors. If he finds out _after_ the job, it'll be the same outcome."

"Relax, Michael. It's not like you haven't been looking over your shoulder for the better part of 50 years. You're used to it."

"No, Lester, I'm not used to having to worry about a private army sending multiple assassins to kill me. I'm used to plenty, but I'm not, nor do I ever want to become adapted, to **that**."

"Oh, just do your job. Always such a complainer. Complaining about everything. I have to work too, fuckface! You think I won't get heat for this? I'm the ringleader of this bullshit! Been the ringleader since the 90s. And now it's almost the 20s...I got to get out of the game..."

"Fine, I'll find Percival. Just don't want this to get too hot."

"Thank you, it'll pay off, I promise. It always does! I don't know what you're worried about."

"At this point, I _not_ worrying would be cause for a little anxiety."

And, with that, Michael left Lester's dilapidated Murrieta Heights complex, in search for the elusive and wealthy Don Percival. Mr. Percival's coordinates were given as follows: he was leaving his Chumash home for some legal negotiations with the IAA and FIB in downtown Los Santos. For the first time in a while, Michael wouldn't be tailing someone to kill them, but just to study their daily routine, their mannerisms, their emotional connections; he was becoming a professional stalker.

The drive didn't take long; Michael's car intercepted Percival's at some place in Vinewood, and began tailing him. Percival acted as any pretentious, wealthy, and successful man would: he was driving his Truffade Adder through the intersections of the classic Vinewood, stopping occasionally to go into Starbucks and get himself a Frappuccino and Espresso, always turning a blind eye to the poor on the streets of the small burrow, stationing a gun on his dashboard in case anyone got crazy, and so on. For the most part, he was your average rich man, as commonplace as that could be, but, then again, it was Vinewood, burrow of the cunts. He bobbed and weaved through the immediate streets, going past multiple malls, finally arriving in the downtown area. All that was left was for him to exit and firmly lock his car, and enter, first, the IAA building, with its ornate glass windows and gleaming federal stairs and doors.

Michael knew that he couldn't tail his target any longer without being spotted, and, as such, withdrew from the immediate vicinity. So, he decided to attend the local attractions around the area, of which could be found: he decided to trek to the pier, despite the fact that it was miles away from where he was supposed to be. It was here that he found Trevor, screwing around.

"Trevor, the fuck are you doing?"

"Research, my 'friend,' research! Lester told me to inspect the geography of Los Santos, Blaine County, and Mount Chiliad. Is that not what I'm accomplishing right now?"

"Trevor, you realize we have to move on this before the end of _May_, right? It's May fucking 1st! I want my 25 mil just as bad as you do, well, maybe much more, considering the fact that you're beating it at the pier. Get off your ass and go to Blaine County!"

"Don't you fucking talk to me like that, you Reptilian motherfucker! Don't you forget that I have _every_ reason to pop a cap in your skull **this very minute**, give me a reason, Mikee. GIVE ME A FUCKING REASON! I dare you!"

"Sigh, Trevor, just do your job, please? I don't feel like getting into a fight with you again. Besides, you may be too unstable for that right now, but, then again, you're always unstable..."

"Eat a dick, asshole. And I am going to Blaine County, but it's _not_ because you told me to. It's...it's because of my meth business! Yeah, you don't tell me what to do, _I_ tell me what to do. My meth business is in deep need of being checked up on, and I intend to adhere to that responsibility. You know what that is, Mikee? Responsibility? Taking **responsibility** and ownership for your actions? Don't worry, you still have 30 days before it's too late _again_.

"Fine, Trevor. I'm going back to the IAA building, Percival's probably done there anyway."

"Fucking hypocrite, coming here and chastising me for dickin' around at the peer when you're here to do the exact same thing. See you later, Snake."

"Bye, Trevor. Oh yeah, one more thing: didn't you forgive me for all this Brad shit 5 years ago? What's making you so angry about it again?"

"I...nothing! I'm just pissed that I can't trust anyone, even my best friend of over 20 years! Just fuck off, Mikee. I need to go to Blaine County, and I don't want you in my presence at the moment."


	3. Foraging

Chapter 3: Foraging

Franklin had the most difficult job of all: finding competent, learnt individuals for the job that they were going to pull, all within a month's time, possibly even less. He looked far and wide, in every criminal and federal nook and cranny he could search in without being physically reprimanded. After all of that, all he could do was get Norton to hire an architect from the federal government. It seemed the most prudent, regal way of going about the situation; no illegality involved.

All in all, Franklin's intelligence led him to the members he needed. He would have a federally funded architect on the team, paid by the monetary proprietary funds Norton had recently been given control over, and Michael would be the point-man.

After all of that, Franklin would need some strong gunmen, especially for the amount of vigor they'd have to deal with upon entering Percival's subconscious. He'd also need a forger; God knows that Trevor wouldn't make a good one. To be a forger, one would have to have exceptional acting potential and skill; Michael was already the point-man, he wouldn't be able to function in two roles at once, especially on a job like this.

The lack of professionalism when it came to planning altercations of this caliber severely irked Franklin, especially knowing the fact that his 25 million dollars hung in the balance. Merryweather's reoperation in the state would also pose a bit of a safety issue for Franklin, but it was all about the money for him, nothing else. So, he decided to search for actors in the place one would find them: all over Los Santos.

That's right, everyone in Los Santos wore, wears, and will continue to wear a mask for their entire life, whether it be for acting or some other formal purpose. Finding actors and lowlifes in this town was easier than robbing a liquor store when the manager wasn't around. The simple problem was this, however: Percival _knew_ Vinewood Hills, meaning that he'd be able to spot a celebrity a mile away should the team choose to bring one in for the job. This being known to Franklin, he knew that he'd have to search in some lesser-known areas of the state of San Andreas. It'd have to be someone professional, too; going to south-central to pick up a tough gang-member wouldn't help Franklin, unless it were for crowd control, and even then, the gangs around there weren't exactly home to the sharpest tools in the shed.

In light of this, Franklin decided to travel north, far north. In fact, he decided to completely leave the state of San Andreas for a little while, venturing to Liberty City, searching for capable people that hadn't quite made it to Broadway, but that were on their way there. The plan for him was simple: go to a Broadway show or two, find a way to get backstage, and blackmail actors to come with him back to his home state. All he had to do was drug one or two and bring them back, simple as that.

And at long last, he found one: Joey Mendez, playing the part of Sheridan Whiteside in the play "The Man Who Came to Dinner." Before leaving for the premiere, Franklin bought a few guns, all machine guns, to _persuade_ Mr. Mendez, as well as his bodyguards, that he should come back with him to Los Santos. First, he watched the show, a good one at that; Mr. Whiteside was a spoiled old man who felt entitled to special treatment on account of his injury at the hands of the estate he had been befallen on. Other than that, Franklin kept in mind that he had a job to do: coerce Mendez. So, he went backstage, prowling about, looking for the role of Whiteside. Unfortunately for Franklin, however, his five years out of the game had proven detrimental to his actual skill; this would indeed be a problem, especially knowing that the guards surrounding Mendez were all armed. Evidently, they weren't armed to the teeth; if that had been the case, Clinton couldn't have gotten as close as he did.

However, Franklin wasn't exactly making himself look inconspicuous; the guards apprehended him, a small firefight ensuing beforehand, resulting in Franklin getting shot in the knee, and two guards getting hit in the arm, both on their right. Frankie had failed, and due to this, he was going to be taken to the local jail to sort out his punishment.

"I'm thinking...20 years, at least. You may be in the North, but being black, even in the year 2018, is still a sin in it of itself. It's not looking too good for you; two counts of attempted murder. If they get lucky, they'll be able to pin one count for attempted kidnapping. On top of that, they've identified you as one of the guys on the Union Depository job a few years back. If you ever leave prison, it'll be as a skeleton; lot of money lost there...possibly including mine," said the stalwart lawyer.

"Sigh...man, I'm grateful you're helping me out n' all, but the fact is that I don't have time to waste with all this legal bullshit," Franklin calmly stated.

"Then I got nothing for ya, kid. And how the hell are _you_ gonna get away from the heat? This is Liberty fucking City. If they want to keep you, they'll keep ya. They know how."

"I'm gonna need my phone call. Hold on, and thanks for at least trying to help me. My bros are gonna pick me up."

"Well, good luck to ya. Try not to screw anything up for me, alright?"

"Alright; hey, sir, can I get my phone call now? Thanks. Okay...uh, hey, Mikee?"

"Hey, Frankie, what's wrong? You sound a little hoarse," Michael claimed.

"Yeah, shit's bad right now. Had to find a forger, and, well, the forger found me, along with about ten of the LCPD."

"LCPD? _Liberty City Police Department?_ When the hell did you go there, and why? What was the point?

"Aight, listen to me, M. We ain't gonna find a credible person on the streets of Vinewood, and hell, if we aren't gonna find anyone there, we're not gonna find anyone on the entire west coast, let alone the state of San Andreas, as good an actor as everyone is there. So, I made the 'logical' conclusion of goin' to Liberty City, lots a actors there, right?"

"Well, who exactly did ya look for, F?"

"Joey Mendez, one of the lesser known yet actually adequate actors on the streets a LC."

"You mean the guy who played Whiteside in that one play? I hear he's actually pretty good!"

"Beside the point, M. I need you and Trevor to come get me. They know about the Union Depository lick, they did a background check. Turns out one of our old crewmembers talked some shit; Taliana Martinez, I think. She's in prison now, but I guess she'll be gettin' out early on account a that. No doubt we gonna hit her once she does, though."

"Uh...F, I hate to break it to you, but if the feds know about the UD robbery a few years back, you're not the only one in danger, then."

"Shit, I know, but I need you to come get me. I need all a you to, if you wanna get this job done."

"Fuck me...alright. But we're gonna come get ya in a few days, so sit tight. Only a couple more weeks time until we absolutely _have_ to move on this, we're not using our resources wisely here."

"Aight, I appreciate it, M. Hope to see you soon."

"Yeah, hope to see you too, Frank."

"You do realize that those phone calls are tapped, right?" said the now pretentious lawyer.

"Not like it matters. You can't stop someone if that person wants something bad enough."

"Yeah, well, good luck. Like I said, you're up against LC's finest. They're not gonna let you go, at least, not easily."

"T...we gotta talk," Michael sighed.

"About?" Trevor conversed.

"It's...it's about F."

"What about him? This sounds oddly treacherous. I thought you were past that phase."

"It isn't anything 'treacherous,' T. It's actually about helping Frankie. He got caught by the LCPD trying to blackmail an actor, Joey Mendez, his name is."

"Yeah, not a good time. Meth business is in flames right now. Probably should've explained that to you when I stormed off from the pier a couple of days ago."

"Shit, Trevor, aren't you supposed to be the morally astute member of the triad of cunts? Thought you'd be a little more forgiving, especially to your emotional butt-buddy, Franklin."

"**Don't you fucking talk to me about being on the moral high ground you treacherous asshole of a snake husk. I've done my fair share; it's time **_**you do**_** something on your own**."

"Calm. Your. Shit. I was only trying to guilt you, that's all."

"I suppose I should expect it from someone who's been being baked by the sun of Los Santos for years and years, now. But I can't fucking help you. Sorry, tough tits."

"Trevor, don't do this...I need you right now. Besides, you don't want Merryweather coming back into the state, do you? We won't be the only ones in danger. The entire criminal underworld could be in jeopardy because of these shitty mercenaries. I need ya back in the game, T, just like you needed me those few years ago."

"Ain't flyin', sorry."

Michael felt defeated. He could feel the twenty-five million dollars just slipping through his hands, as well as his safety. Whichever of the two he valued more, was a topic put up for extreme debate. As long as Frankie was in prison, or going to prison, however, Michael would have to consider moving out of the state, possibly the entire country. The criminal community of San Andreas wouldn't take that much of a hit, but there would be an exceptional drop in experienced members of the crime ring. Of all people, he seriously didn't expect Trevor to turn him away, even in a time of need akin to this. This did not solely affect Michael, it affected Trevor, Franklin, Lester, you name it. Merryweather just couldn't be allowed to operate in the state, at least, not on any of the aforementioned individual's parts. But Michael wasn't one to give up without using his knack for manipulating people. He would find a way, and find a way he did.

"Lester, need you to get me a couple of gunmen. We're gonna get Franklin out of the Liberty City Penitentiary, and we're gonna do it this week."

"On such short notice...you never make my job easy, but I can see where you're coming from. I'll help, mostly because my own life depends on it."

"I know this is cliché to say and all, L, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Shut the fuck up and let me think; oh yeah, by the way, how'd Frankie get himself caught?"

"The dumbass thought he could just waltz into the backstage of a Broadway show with a couple of guns and steal an actor. Apparently, that didn't work out well for him. Frankie's supposed to be smart too, I don't know what the hell happened."

"Sigh...fuck. Alright. It's going to take a lot of money, maybe a favor or two. You need to stay with me on this, and you're gonna do exactly what I tell you."

"Alright, alright, I get it, authority. Do your job."

"As long as you do yours."

Lester acquired the usual suspects, Packy McReary, Gustavo Mota, and Paige Harris, all of which were exceptional when it came to the subject of handling weaponry.

"I'm going to ask you to do the impossible; for it, you get a cut of the upcoming job that you will not be a part of. As the details of this heist are shrouded in federal secrecy, I can't go far beyond that. Just know that all of you will probably be getting at least 10 mil each if this goes well."

"Because of the fact that you've proven yourself trustworthy in the past, Lester, I'll let the peripherals of your little heist go unchecked. What do we need to do?" Harris interceded.

"This is a bit on short notice—I'm going to need you to break Mr. Franklin Clinton out of the Liberty City Penitentiary, this week."

"Well...damn, okay, I'll try my best. Hacking skills should come in handy."

"Michael will be joining all three of you for the heist itself; we'll be having a meeting tomorrow, same place, my house."

"You say it like it's going to be a cakewalk, Lest...we may have survived on that job for the Union Dep, but LC is an entirely different story, especially the penitentiary itself," McReary retorted.

"It's only one guy, not like you'll be breaking out multiple people."

"Yeah, like we'll be taking one person involuntarily. Multiple people at the prison will be giving us heat, even if they don't have guns. It's. A. Prison!"

"What do you want me to do? You'll get your cuts, just be happy. Besides, you'll be moving on this in two days, most likely."

"Well, could always use some extra money, especially in South Central," Mota supported.

Franklin spent his first night in the penitentiary, scared. He'd been to the county jail a few times, but had never been sent to a full-on prison before. He knew that his friends would come to save him, but he couldn't help but feel a little jittery at the thought that he was in there with a few people who didn't exactly have their heads on straight. He'd gotten stronger over the five years he'd had, so he was able to defend himself. No inmate made any moves on him because of this; they could tell that he was going to be a problem for them if they were going to be a problem for him. Then, Franklin started to gingerly initiate conversation.

"So...uh...I know this is kinda cliché n' all, but whata y'all in here for?" Franklin inquired.

"What the hell is it to you?" asked a random inmate.

"Nothin', nothin'...just thought I'd make conversation while we were in here."

"Well...uh...I'm in here for robbing a convenience store."

"That's it?"

"Yeah...LC police are really racist, I'm gonna be in here for about five years."

"Hey...let me ask you something...what are you interested in?"

"Whaddya mean 'What am I interested in?' This isn't amateur therapy hour."

"I didn't mean that, but if you were to break out tomorrow or the next day, what would you want to do first?"

"Well, I always sorta liked theater...but I liked robbing more, until I got caught, of course."

"Well, how would you like to break outta here tomorrow night or the next day? My friends are comin' to pick me up, and we need one more person for a job we gonna pull at the end of the month."

"Jesus, your trust is _fast_ to gain. You know that I could just tell the guards about this whole thing and possibly reduce my sentence, right?"

"You can, but I implore you to look at who you're dealing with. Someone who's at least three times the size of you. Your choice, bro."

"Threatening me, eh? Well, I guess I truly _don't _have a choice then. Who are your so-called 'friends?'"

"They go by the names of T and M. I ain't gonna say their full names 'cause if I did, you'd probably shit your pants, that is unless you're new to the game?"

"Relatively. I've pulled a few miniscule jobs over LC."

"Then why you sayin' the cops are racist? You been doin' this shit plenty of times, of course you gonna get a sentence of at least five years. Shit, lucky it wasn't more."

"I said I was going to help you; don't push it."

"Not like you can do anything about it."

"Touché...anyway, alright, I'll keep quiet. But if this prison break you're talking about doesn't fly, I'm gonna tell the guards that you set me up. On a lighter note, whaddya in here for?"

"That's none of your concern right now. Go to sleep, and we'll get ready to move on this."

"Knee looks pretty roughed up...you sure this is gonna work? Your life depends on it, you know."

"So does yours; don't worry about my knee. My friends are good at what they do."


	4. Trevor Phillips Industries

Chapter 4: Trevor Phillips Industries

After leaving the pier, Trevor knew he had to check up on "Trevor Phillips Industries," especially knowing that Ron was in charge of the entire thing. Ron had done an exceptional job last time, which is why it was completely out of left-field for Trevor to simply return to his base of operations. But, lucky for Ron, his plight actually necessitated Trevor: a new Russian crime ring had just sprung up out of nowhere in Blaine County, and was now taking scores against Trevor's business itself.

"Oh, thank _god_ you're here! We're in some big trouble, T."

"I can't leave you for two fucking days without you causing shit, can I?"

"Now, uh, now...I—I handled the business last time! I—I'm useful, Trevor! I'll do whatever you want, promise!"

"That's better, now, before I ask you to rub me out, I need you to tell me just what the hell's been going on. You seem more...frisky than usual."

"It's a new drug ring, Trevor! New guys that I hear are from Eastern Europe, I think, uh, Russia? Anyway, they brought their meth here, along with other drugs, and have been selling it like hotcakes!"

"So? Just kill 'em. I _expect_ that you know how to do that? God, you need to run a business, and you don't even know how to kill people? This is America! Capitalism runs on that shit!"

"I—I know, Trevor...it's just that, well, they're Russian! And you know about how they caused that civil war in Ukraine a couple years back..."

"Are you calling our newfound competition a bunch of imperial elitists? I know that you're a lot a things, Ron, but a racist? I oughtta beat you 'til your grandchildren are unconscious; that's inflammatory! Besides, do ya really think the Russian people _wanted_ that? Over 70% of them said they didn't even want Putin all that time ago, let alone him budding his nose in a bordering state!

"Okay, okay Trevor, I'm _sorry_. But, but, we still have to deal with this."

"Don't tell me what to do, I tell _you_ what to do."

"Trevor...if it's okay for me to ask, why do you have such an inferiority complex?"

"_**WHAT?**_"

"Nevermind, nevermind!

"Damn straight, now, about the Russians. Show me where they are in the county."

"Okay, they're near the Alamo Sea, northern end. Northern end, as in, they're stationed a little ways up in the mountains. You know that village of cannibals and old people you took out a few years back? I think they've taken that over."

"Perfect, I know the terrain. Ron, I need you to handle the business; I'll get everything together. Oh, phones ringing."

This particular phone call was a tinge of emotional pain for Trevor: he'd just found out that his good friend of about five years, Franklin, was in a penitentiary more than 2,000 miles away. Even worse, he couldn't do anything about it; after hanging up on Michael, he felt a little guilty.

All throughout his life, he felt that he was the one who had to keep his moral record clean of any stains. If a friend needed help, he'd be there. If he needed to be honest, he would. He was the one who was to stay true to himself, even when everyone else survived off of lying. He'd always been this way, probably on account of his abusive father. Canada had some rough memories for the emotionally decrepit Phillips, some that he'd never want to mentally venture back towards. In the end, all he could do was watch as his friend was probably going to be sent to jail for at least twenty years of his life. He just didn't know what to do.

As he drove his stolen Truffade Adder through the twists and turns, the corridors and entryways of Mount Chiliad, he reflected on his life, thinking about how good, and yet how bad a person he was. All the choices he'd made, all the strife he'd endured, and he couldn't help one of the best friends of his life. It hurt.

At the end of it all, he was just a mile away from his destination; more killing just for his capitalistic decadence. This would simply be to crush the competition with respect to his own business, nothing more, nothing less. He'd done this dozens of times before, sometimes with a hint of gory happiness. He especially adored the instances in which the situation would turn awry, actually putting his own life in danger, instead of the mass-murdering being a cakewalk with the occasional bullet in the side. This particular shooting would not be his easiest, but it wouldn't be nearly the most difficult either. It was just adequate, that was that. Adequate, average, common, run-of-the-mill.

As Trevor was ruminating on this, he'd just begun to realize, what on earth was he doing here, especially while one of his greatest companions was in trouble? On top of that, his "friend," more acquaintance than anything now, Michael, was going to get himself into some heat too. It was surprising to Trevor, seeing Michael stick his neck out for his other friends; he'd seldom seen him do that before.

And it was in that moment that he realized, Franklin was a very special, and extremely rare individual. Not only was his intelligence palpable, his loyalty was unmatched. Even in the face of death, Franklin never wavered or backed down from helping one of his friends, even those that he'd only known for a few short weeks.

If Trevor stayed there any longer, the Russian gang would find him, and then he'd have to go through with the ostensibly gratuitous killing of at least ten more people. Ten more people on his kill list, and how many had he maimed, butchered, murdered, sliced up into little pieces? The list could go on for miles; hell, Trevor must've been the most dangerous serial killer of all time. He'd just do it on a whim. And, now, he was questioning all of that, all for the sake of Franklin. It was evident to him that Clinton alone could make himself question what he thought was right and wrong, what was healthy and unhealthy, what was sentimental or detrimental.

On top of all of this, however, he knew that he still had two jobs to accomplish: first and foremost, save his meth business; secondly, he'd have to scout the entire state of San Andreas, with special attention to small details in order to make the ensuing dream world become professedly tangible.

"This is it, buddy. Leave or kill; those are your two choices," Trevor's mind stated.

This was a distinct pain that Trevor was now feeling.

"Это частная собственность, ублюдок! Отпуск или мне будет стрелять!" a guard yelled at the now fervently damaged Trevor.

"I have no idea what the fuck you're saying, but you've gotten off lucky this time. I'll leave our competition alone."

And with that, Trevor drove away, into the night, hoping for some other peripheral action. Other than that, he didn't do much.

"I couldn't do it; I couldn't _**fucking**_ do it."

"What—what do you mean? You're the best at it! How could you suddenly not do it?"

"DON'T QUESTION ME! Would you rather I'd have killed _you?_"

"N—no, Trevor! I didn't mean nothin' by it, honest!"

"Better fucking not've. Anyway, yeah, I couldn't do it. You must think I'm **soooooooo **weak now, right? **Right**?"

"No, you're the boss, Trevor! I understand that, don't worry!"

"Then don't for a second put my authority on the table! I'm the CEO of this goddamn business. I do what I want!"

"Y—yes, Trevor. Yeah, sorry. So, if you're not gonna do that, what _are_ ya gonna do?"

"Leave that to me, Ronald, leave that to me!"

With that done, Trevor decided to scope the entirety of the state. It took a couple days, but he figured it'd at least make up for a little of what he'd done to his two friends. He was doing his job now, no one could argue that. He was going to have the entire thing accomplished by when and if Michael and Franklin escaped LC. That would be enough of a redemption for him at the present moment; more of the same would come, more chances to redeem himself, and he'd take it, but this was his main focus.

Leaving that Russian gang alive was undoubtedly going to damage his meth business; Trevor understood and accepted that. So, in a way, this "last" job was sort of a leap of faith for him; if it failed, he would be bankrupt, and would have to begin his vicious cycle of crime all over again; this time, he wouldn't have any protection. If he got caught, that was it; he'd be sent to jail, or worse, a mental correctional facility. Of course, he'd have his friends to get himself out, but beyond that, it'd take years to glean the amount of money he'd once made back into his bank account. That was something he rudimentarily did not have the patience for.

All in all, this little heart-to-heart taught himself something _about_ himself; he didn't like unnecessary killing, even though he'd been doing it for god knows how long. He just didn't have the stomach for it anymore.


	5. Liberation Day

Chapter 5: Liberation Day

"Ah, the usual suspects. Mota, McReary, and Harris...nice to see all of you again! Hopefully in good health, as well...," said Michael.

"Much thanks to you, Mr. Townley. We've been living out our days quite fine after that last job we pulled in 2013...at least, I've been," Paige interjected.

"Speak for yourself, Harris. I've been doing a lot of gambling since that lick...forced me to pull even more jobs over the last five years, some of which propelled me back to my former economic standing, others just for the fun. Anyway, as I understand it, you and Lester need us to pull a high-class job, amirite?" McReary debated.

"Right you are, Packy...always one to get to the point. Anyway, yeah, we're here for one reason and one reason only: to break our boy Franklin out of the Liberty City Penitentiary. Oh yeah, also got some bad news...the feds, they know about a couple people who were on the job. If they identify you, chances are that they're going to have you on their file."

"Woah, woah, what? You never said _shit _about that, M. Nor did your pal Lester...you got off lucky. If I'd known about this, I'd have thought this was a trap. M, I don't know you very well, but from what Trevor spouted a few years back at that UD job, you're not exactly one to be trusted," Mota chastised.

"Well, the way I see it, boys, Mr. Townley here can't blackmail us for anything; he'd be risking his own ass too. From what Lester's told me, we'll be getting paid with taxpayer dollars; in other words, it sounds like an extremely good deal, especially considering that he's told me that the feds would be willing to pay us all at least 10 mil just to get Frank out," McReary stated.

"Hold up, aren't the feds the people that **want **us in the ground? Why would we want to accept money from them?" Mota questioned.

"Gus, Gus, Gus...your intelligence hasn't changed a bit. Different branches of the government want different things, dumbass, recognize that! If we were to complete this job, we'd be getting money from the FIB; the idiots that are trying to put us in the ground are probably IAA douchebags or just regular cops from LC's finest," Paige informed Gus.

"Anyway, if you're all in on this, we'll be moving on the job today or tomorrow, depending on what Lester needs us to get," Michael stated.

"You'll all need to be quick, just letting you know," Lester said.

"Yeah, nice job 'informing' us about the evidence on our little UD lick. Came in real handy. How the fuck did they find out? This is serious shit!"

"Look, that doesn't matter much, but if you really want to know, Taliana talked. We're leaving it at that, next item," Lester informed.

"Wait, Taliana?-" the entire group inquired, obviously excluding Michael.

"-I said next item! Anyway, we all know that LC Penitentiary is one of the most insulated correctional facilities in the US; very few people escape from there and make it to the outside world. It's not like it'll have heat like the UD job, but the danger you'll be facing there will be very real. Due to the short amount of time we have, we'll need to think of a competent yet swift plan, nothing too complex yet too rudimentary. I realize this is a daunting task, so we're all just going to have to think of something now. Gather 'round!" Lester yelled.

"I still have money from the UD lick, and myself being a rich producer, I have some money to throw around. Makes me wonder why I'm doing this job in the first place...but then, I remember, Trevor..."

"What's wrong with Trevor, now?" Harris inquired.

"Well...it's not really what's wrong with Trevor, just what's wrong with certain corporations. Okay, maybe it is mostly Trevor...I suppose the only reason I haven't tried to kill him is because I guess I'm sort of past that treachery stage. I don't know."

"Elaborate, please. I'd like to know what effect our busting Franklin out of jail has on not only our lives, but the lives of the criminal underworld."

"Perceptive as ever, Paige...okay, so, there's this guy named Don, Don Percival. Whether you know him or not, he runs this big security and mercenary firm called 'Merryweather Security Consulting;' I _know_ that most of you have heard of that, you've faced some of their private soldiers..."

"Just get to the point, M."

"Okay, okay. Percival is negotiating a deal for Merryweather to operate in the state again; if this happens, Trevor may start messing with them; this'll undoubtedly get Franklin and I involved, which, in turn, will get even more people involved. It's a Pandora's box that we will endeavor not to open. So, in a way, I guess this **does **affect all of you, albeit slightly. However, it'll still do damage to your criminal career, as well as the black market of San Andreas."

"You probably already have this figured out, but how in the hell are you exactly going to stop this from happening? Attacking him won't do anything; the state might even grant some special permissions to Merryweather if that happens. What are you going to do?"

"Ah, well, that's the 'fun' part...we're going to do...ugh...'inception.'"

"You're joking, right? You mean like the movie? Are you serious? I mean, I'm not going to act like it's my problem, but Jesus, good luck with that one..."

"You know, funny thing about that...we're actually looking for a few roles to fill: we need a forger, maybe an architect, although Franklin's told me we'll just get a federal one; that doesn't really reassure me..."

"Architecture, huh? You know, M, myself being a computer geek n' all...I've dabbled in 3D art design before. This means that I've created entire worlds for my characters to live in. I know a thing or two about building things."

"Enough to create four of them in a dream sequence?"

"M, I'm Harris. I was born a genius; the only girl in many of my hackathons with other people, many of them I've won. I can get into anything I want; I just like the adrenaline that crime gives me, even if it's low-brow shit like some of the jobs you've given me."

"Okay, okay, enough. We need to focus on the job at hand. You can talk about your inception shit later. Anyway, I'm thinking we do a technological attack, seeing as how the whole of the US still hasn't fully upgraded from their shitty Windows XP UI's yet," Lester intervened.

"Hey, Windows XP is actually pretty good-"

"-Save it, Harris. You're going to be one of the main people on this job. What you'll need to do is simply hack the computers that are controlling the mechanisms of the prison. Mota, McReary, you're on crowd control. Chances are we'll be getting a plethora of heat once we actually leave the prison with Frank. Because of lack of time, I'm going to make this as straightforward as I possibly can; we've dealt with ubiquitous amounts of cops before; this won't be very different.

"Lest, you JUST said that LC wasn't a daycare. If that's the case, I think we're going to need a little better of a plan before we move on this. How about this, alright? We do what we did during the UD job last time. We steal some outfits, get some ID cards, waltz in, take Franklin, and walk right back out."

"Ugh, fine...but I like simpler plans in times like these."

"Well, I simply adore plans that result in me still being alive, don't you? Anyway, yeah, Paige, you can still hack, and you guys can accompany me as we move throughout the prison. I just hope to god that we only have to open one cell door, not all of them at the same time."

The entire group got onto a plane and headed for LC; the ride was actually pretty fun. For the duration of the flight, they played two pretty good movies, both of which had titles that, ironically, no one remembered. One could surmise that they were in their proverbial zone, mentally preparing for another heist, only, this time, they'd be stealing a person, not an object or a multitude of objects.

Once they got off the plane at Liberty City Int'l, they rented a single hotel room in which all five could congregate and prepare.

"Okay, we're all going to need to get some guns, ammo, and armor from Ammu-Nation. To get this done quickly, one of you will need to stay behind and watch the room while the rest get the stuff they need. I'll do that; once you guys return, I'll get the firepower I need on my own. Oh yeah, one more thing: once we get Franklin outside, we'll all need to start wearing ski masks; we will _not_ be able to take a plane out of this city when we're done."

"Lest, I got a feeling...what if we called Trevor again? Even at this point, I still think that he'll help us; it's just the way he is."

"What? No! He's not part of this job, plain and simple! He chose not to be a part of it; he gets no extra 10 mil. His loss."

"Sigh...fine."

An hour passed, and all five had the firepower to take out an entire army if need be. They were good; the best, some could and would say. It was near midnight, and they were all tired. They decided to move on the entire thing once they'd all had at least six hours of rest; then, 6 AM came around.

"Everyone, _wake the fuck up!_" It's time we moved on this, while it's still technically nighttime!" Michael screamed.

"Shut the hell up, M! We may have neighbors, don't draw any undue attention!" Lester viciously stated.

"Fine, fine, but get up, all of you! Today is the day we free Frankie!"

"By the way, what day is it today? I've lost track," Mota asked.

"I think it's, uh...right, Thursday. Thursday, the 10th.

"Fuck, Michael...we're a third the way through May and we've barely even started planning the job that has to take place at the end of the month!

"Now's not the time to worry about that, L. Reminds me: initials from here on in, folks! Okay, M&amp;M...heh, going to need both of you on guns. Remember _not_ to put your ski masks on until we have Frankie outside the prison, along with ourselves, or until our cover is blown. Paige, you...you do your computer shit."

"Uh, eh-hem! I'm the one who gives orders around here, M. Alright, you all know what you need to do, get ready. We leave in five minutes."

The trip to the prison was extremely endearing, especially for Michael, who was feeling ecstatic about the prospect of saving his friend from prison, something he'd wish he'd been able to do with Trevor to his friend Brad. Brad had bothered him a lot over the past fifteen years following his death, emphatically the last five, the time succeeding where Trevor found out about the tragedy of their fallen friend. It was eating away at him; even though Trevor had forgiven him, and he knew that what he'd done was for his family, or, at least, he'd _thought_, he just couldn't help being conflicted about the entire event. The one friend that he'd truly betrayed, not Trevor, but Brad.

Even if Brad was a rudimentary fading memory in Michael's consciousness and subconsciousness, he couldn't help feeling a little guilted. But, as they encroached upon the territory that the prison took up, he knew that he couldn't afford to trouble himself with these feelings until at least after the job, again. He was postponing his bout with his feelings _again_, much like his previous gumptions about his own emotions. It was beginning to bother him, but now was certainly not the time for it to take place. "Eye on the prize," Michael thought to himself.

"Alright gentlemen and lady-"

"Never say that again, L," Harris commanded.

"Whatever, anyway, a prison bus is inbound; I want you guys to stop it and find as many guard uniforms as you can possibly wear. Free the inmates and make sure they don't cause any trouble to us."

"On it; ski masks on, now!," Michael said as he blocked the bus with his own stolen armored car.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, I need some genuine guard uniforms for my friends over here; please do not make me ruin them with your blood! Hands up and bodies on the ground, now!"

Lucky for the entire team, most everyone on the bus complied with their demands. There was the occasional heroic hiccup here and there, nothing that couldn't have been solved by shooting a few bullets at people's feet. All in all, the group got their uniforms, and even liberated some twenty something prisoners, some of which probably committed atrocious acts during their time in the outside world; this mattered not to the heist at hand.

The former guards were stripped of their communication devices, as well as a vehicle that could lead them to asylum; they were essentially at the mercy of the escaped prisoners, some of which approached the guards in a menacing way. This was of no concern to the heist, again; moral ambiguity and ambivalence was, is, and will probably still be common to the people that were committing the crime.

The congregation was reaching the penitentiary, ever so gradually. They knew what they had to do; no words were necessary. Most everything was tacit from there on in. The bus entered the prison; as this was being done, Paige readied her weapons, and exited with her uniform on. She entered the control room, killed the three guards that were manning it with a muffled pistol, and began reprogramming the system to unlock one door instead of the ten thousand that were in the building itself.

Lester would stay in the bus, making it his base of operations for the complete duration of the job. Michael, Gustavo, and Packy entered the prison and looked for Franklin.

"Sorta knew you'd come, thanks, guys!"

"Eh, no problem, F! Who's this guy, he looks like he knows you."

"Ah, well...hope this doesn't mess up your plan in any way, but we actually need him. Turns out he's a pretty good actor, not well known too. I figured someone like Joey Mendez actually _would_ seem a bit obvious to Percival, so I decided that I'd let him tag along."

"Fuck...I guess there's no way you could've told us. I guess you're the smartest in the group, even though ya got yourself caught...sigh."

"If your friend isn't convincing you, allow me to. I can inform the guards at any minute about your little escape attempt-"

"Oh, so the rabbit has 'teeth.' What's to stop me from putting you down right this instant, motherfucker?"

"The fact that if one of these prisoners sees you shoot me, it'll cause a riot, more than you can handle. Besides, are you ready to kill hundreds of people in broad daylight just to save one guy?"

"Shit, this guy actually talks good...fine, fine. Won't do much, if not anything to the plan anyway. But you better be a good forger. Anyway, let's cut to the chase, what's your name?"

"Tyler Daniels. Don't really know what a forger is, but it sounds funner than staying here."

"It will be, especially with your knack of manipulation and coercion...move fast now, we need to be in n' out quickly."

This being the LC Penitentiary, it was only common sense that the entire battalion would be facing some form of heat throughout the job. Michael brought extra firearms for Frank, but didn't have any plans for his new friend. Mota assisted in this.

"Nice to see you two again, M&amp;M, eh?"

"Shut the fuck up and keep running. Don't want too much heat," McReary coldly yelled.

"Fine, fine—how much you guys getting paid for this?"

"10 mil, nice price, right?" Mota interjected.

"Nice, nice...hey, thanks again n' all, but where's Trevor?"

"Mike here tells us that he couldn't make it; said he was having trouble with his meth business," McReary calmly stated.

"That's...not like Trevor. Not like Trevor to refuse to help his friends, even with his money in jeopardy...what you think 'bout this, M?"

"I think that we need to focus on the situation at hand and worry about Phillips later."

"Fine, fine...everyone's so damn snippy today, I bet it's 'cause it's the mornin'."

"I...have absolutely no idea what the hell you guys are talking about, but you sound like you're busy and important; I hope at least one of those is true."

"You'll find out soon, T," Franklin stated.

Guards had just begun swarming the penitentiary, blocking off every entrance they could. Paige had already killed at least twenty guards, all instantaneously. She was steadily running out of ammunition; just as she was about to deplete herself of it all, the main platoon arrived, and they ran as fast as they could to the prison bus.

"What took you so goddamn long? I've been waiting in this bus for over an hour!"

"Thanks for comin' through, L...you really went above and beyond for this one."

"Shut up and drive, you're getting us out of here on account of you being the best driver here."

"Got it. Where to?"

"LC airfield, Trevor's pickin' us up!"

"And when exactly did this happen, Michael?"

"The night before we went on this job. Turns out having faith in your friends actually gets you somewhere. You should try it sometime, L."

"Well, if that's the case, I guess we need to go now. I need all a ya'll to manage the windows; need some turrets."

And with that, they were off. Franklin tried to drive as quickly as he could; the fact that the bus was heavily armored helped tremendously. As they continued on their bumpy ride, LC's finest began chasing them. Franklin and the rest of the congregation knew exactly how to evade them: the trick was never to take straight roads; the cop cars were fast, especially the interceptors; for this, Franklin would take the backstreets of the city and swerve in any way he could.

Eventually, they'd all gotten away, and the airfield was finally in view, along with Trevor's jet, one of many items that he'd stolen in the past. It was a euphoric site to Franklin, seeing his old friend after only having stayed in prison for a couple of nights.

"And that's all she wrote, folks! Hop onto the jet and let's get the hell out of here!"

"Missed you, bro. Thanks for comin' through."

"Anything for you Frankie, my boy! I shouldn't have turned a blind eye to you in the beginning; to make up for that, not only have I just saved you right now, but I also finished my job of scouting the entirety of San Andreas; everything's ready for the architect we're getting!"

"D-damn...nice work, T! You the craziest and most productive motherfucker I ever had the pleasure a meetin'...good work."

"Wow, T...you really did go above and beyond for that. Good job."

"All for the job, all for the lick. Anyway, it's best we get out of here before the 5-0 catch us again."

"Don't call them that. Just call them cops, that's less stupid and corny," McReary stated.

"You must not know me very well, McReary, because if you did, you'd know to keep that little asshole of yours shut; got it?"

"Sigh, fine. Please just get us out of here."

"Your money'll be waiting for you at the FIB building. Just get it and go," Lester stated.

"That reminds me; Paige, I need to speak with you once we land," Michael said.

"Fair enough."

The flight back to San Andreas was a short one, filled with small banter here and there, but nothing major. All who needed to be paid would be getting paid, and those who were to go without compensation accepted this as it was. This heist was completely successful, and should've been, for the most part, clean. Now, all that was left was the main heist, the Percival job.


	6. Back to Work

Chapter 6: Back to Work

The ride back to San Andreas, specifically Trevor's airfield, was a short and seamless one. The entire group was composed of eight people, about the number it took to take the UD a few years back. While this job certainly wasn't of that caliber, it was ostensibly paramount in surmounting the next imminent task, inception on Percival.

In all honesty, Franklin's capture and subsequent freedom had actually been able to bear fruit for the entire company; they got a forger for the job, and a random forger at that. All they had to do was test and ameliorate his acting abilities, tweaking any minor abnormalities. Even more, Paige was now set to help on the job as well.

"Now, I can talk to you."

"What is this about? Something to do with the job you're pulling in a few weeks, right?'

"Right, we need an architect for the job. Originally, we were going to have one paid for by the federal government; you joining us wouldn't exactly decrease corruption in the fed, but it'd certainly give them one more worker for the other buildings that they'd have to build during the course of this month."

"Okay, how much you offering?"

"As of right now, 25 mil, all paid for by the 'honest' taxpayers of America."

"And how do we know that we can trust the government in this case?"

"Because my buddy, my good friend Dave Norton, is handling the entire thing. Besides, even if he _were_ to try anything, he and you both know how dangerous Trevor, Franklin, or I alone can be. He won't attempt anything on us, trust me."

"Well, you guys did handle those mercenaries in that job that killed those four guys a few years back, so I guess I can trust your word. What would I have to do, specifically?"

"Create three dream worlds. You've done graphic design before, right?"

"Yeah, pretty good at it, I'd like to think."

"Okay, so you'd just be doing that, three times over. Keep in mind, all the environments you create have to be realistic; they also can't be any locations that are already extant, meaning that you can use the cities that already exist; you'd just have to tweak some of the surroundings.

"How long do I have to create these ensuing lifelike environments?"

"...that's the tough part, at least in my opinion. You have about two to three weeks. They don't exactly have to look too real, considering that it'll be a dream sequence, but you have to remember that Percival is trained for this type of stuff. He'll know if something doesn't architecturally hold weight."

"Fuck, Mikee...you're putting a lot on my plate...but 25 mil? Sounds awesome...that's more than what we got from the UD, and more than I can certainly spend, at least for now. Alright, I'll do it; I know your reputation and the reputation of your crew, so I'll trust you.

"Thanks, Harris, I appreciate it. Oh, and we'll probably be moving on this Memorial Day weekend; sorry, no barbecues, unless, of course, we do this before then."

While the position of the architect was settled, it was time to find some competent gunmen that were able to hold their own. Michael decided to simply use the men that were on his last job, Mota and McReary.

"Hell yeah, we'll do it. Mike, you have such an impressive track record now, it'd be downright stupid of us to turn it down. And 25 mil, you say? Feel like we're robbing you...yeah, we'll do it, don't worry," McReary said.

All the positions were set, and all that was left was for the architect to work her magic; everything was falling into place. The only hiccup so far was the fact that Franklin had been captured; only, that had actually played to the advantage of the crew itself, earning them the forger they needed. Everything was running like clockwork...

"Okay, Tyler, was it?"

"Yeah, Tyler Daniels. Low-rate actor, none-rate forger. Don't even know what the hell it is."

"Frank didn't explain it to you? Weird. Anyway, a forger is someone who is able to take on the appearance of someone else during the dream sequence, say, a projection, or other form of subconscious representation."

"Mind telling me what a projection is?"

"Right, right, I don't think I've explained it to anyone else, either...a projection is a mental representation of your subconscious. They're essentially the white blood cells of the mind one enters. If someone changes the scenery or surroundings of the physical dream itself, the entire situation could go awry."

"Sounds about as complicated as brain surgery, but go on."

"Well, let me put it this way: if you change shit in the dream, you die. The projections converge on you, and they kill you. Also, in most cases, when you die in a dream, you wake up. This can't happen in our case because of the fact that the sedative we'll be using leaves inner ear function unimpaired, which means we'll still feel falling. This is problematic because of the fact that the sedative will be so powerful that, even in the case of your tragic death, you won't wake up; you'll be transported to limbo."

"...and what the hell is limbo?"

"Basically a never-ending dream."

"So...what you're saying is...if we die in the dream, we won't wake up?"

"Exactly."

"Then how the fuck do we wake up? This whole thing sounds extremely dangerous."

"A kick. When I said that inner ear function was unimpaired, I also stated that falling would induce consciousness."

"...oh. So all we have to do is fall?"

"Not just fall a couple of feet, especially when you're aware of it. I mean a startling fall, a fall that takes a couple of seconds for impact to come to your body, crushing you with pressure. That's another problem; we can't leave the dream until we're done. We essentially won't get a second chance at this, unless we all get plastic surgery and change our names."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm saying that if we fail, we won't be able to do this again. This is so, because of the fact that Percival will now know what we look like, what we sound like, and who we are in general. If this fails, we won't have time for a second chance. Merryweather will operate in the state once again, and my, as well as other people's lives, will be in danger."

"Okay, I see we need a little clarity here. I am only helping all of you because of the money. I really couldn't care less about your life being in danger, especially since I just met you. So, let's leave all the touchy-feely stuff alone and get to business. So, we only have one shot at this; in my case, if we fail, I lose the money, that's it."

"You know, if we didn't need you, I would've shot you in both your knees right now. You say that shit again, not only will I beat the shit out of you, I will get the entire crew to do the same. You show some goddamn respect, especially since we're the guys that broke you outta that prison!"

"Ooooh, big tough guy is going to send me back to prison, real scary. You know I can hurt you too, right? I know all about the UD job your friend pulled a few years back. You have more to lose than your precious money here, alright? So guess what, if this fails, I'm going to tell as many people as I can about your companion's little robbery a few years back. Nothing you can do."

"If you want to die, go ahead."

"...right."

"You don't seem like the person to think things through. If you say _a word_ about Franklin or anything that he's done, or do the same for anyone else that I hold dear, I will personally see to it that you die a slow, painful, grueling death. I'll make everyone watch, too. You should really get that mouth of yours under control."

"Same goes for your temper."

"**GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, NOW!**"

Although chemistry wasn't essential to the passage of the plan, camaraderie did make the process much simpler. One item was certain; if Tyler was ever going to work again, he wouldn't be within any sort of correlation to Michael Townley; the latter would make certain of that.

"Your friend is really hot-headed."

"The fuck you just say about Michael?" Franklin retorted.

"Oh, don't tell me you do it too..."

"For your information, not that you deserve it, Michael has been a very good friend to me for these five past years. He's saved my life, more than once, and he deserves a lot more respect than you givin' him right about now. I heard the yelling."

"People suck, and your friend's part of those people."

"Tyler...shut the fuck up. Surprised that mouth a yours didn't get you killed in prison."

"I'm a smart guy, you don't know me."

"Well, we'll see if you smart enough to fool Percival. Better be. Hope your acting's as good as your attitude and personality are bad."

"Yeah, fuck you too, 'Frankie.'"

"Man, I'm goin' home. People like you are poisonous to be around, ya know. Oh yeah, I dare you to do this shit to Trevor. If you do, make sure to record the sound. It'll be hilarious."


	7. The Talk

Chapter 7: The Talk

"I'm coming over," Michael calmly stated.

"...what for?" Franklin asked, surprised.

"Your new 'friend,' what else?"

"Alright."

In both of their eyes, something needed to be done. Tyler's attitude, at least in this case, wasn't the issue; it was whether he could be trusted or not. This new "side" of him that both Franklin and Michael had slowly had the acute displeasure of discovering irked them both, especially because of the fact that they'd have to work with this man for a few hours, which translated into days, weeks, months while comatose.

How on earth could one trust a person who always had something "smart" to say, always had a "threatening," seemingly idle comeback to what they stated? All this time, throughout all the strife that the "three cunts" had to endure, they'd dealt with two types of people: those that would comply out of fear for their lives, and those that were dim-witted enough to cross any of member of the trio and die for it. This new guy fit into neither of those categories.

He was palpably intelligent, able to think of a revenge scheme in mere seconds, almost as if he'd planned to sac all of them from the very beginning. Obviously, the entire gang knew better than to adhere to faulty conspiracy theories; Percival was intelligent, but not completely perspicacious. He wasn't watching their every move; hell, he'd probably forgotten about them the minute he sent them that fateful e-mail, five years prior. The message simply stated this: do best _never_ to come near Percival, as if they had ever tried, or they would have Merryweather at their homes, at their vacation houses, and everywhere in between, ready to maim and kill anyone and everyone they held dear.

This reminder brought into question again why Michael and Franklin were even attempting to mess with Don; even though the odds were seemingly in their favor, they couldn't help but feel that Percival knew **something**, even though it'd be completely implausible for him to have been aware of anything. As far as his wealth and well-being were concerned, Michael De Santa (Townley), Franklin Clinton, and Trevor Phillips did not exist. If they did, they certainly weren't going try to anything against his own self; that'd be too dangerous.

"He's got to go. We need to kill him and find a new one. We have time."

"Fuck, man, I agree wit' you...it's just...hell, you know what, I'm bein' fidgety. Hell yeah, we can find someone ten times better than him, and loads more discrete, too! Don't know why I was wastin' time with his sorry ass..."

"Then let's do it. Only thing now is to call Trevor and let him know we're doing this. I want you to cite why first, then I will."

"Sounds good."

"...uh, hi, Trevor? You there?"

"Y'ello!"

"Got something a little ambivalent to tell you; we're killin' again."

"Sigh...who, might I ask?"

"The new guy we just got."

"The fuck, Mike? He's new! Fuck did he do?"

"He ain't trustworthy, Trev. He was talkin' shit about our whole team, and he threatened to put some of us in the ground if we did anything to him."

"God...god damnit! I...I just don't know what the fuck I feel about killing people!"

"...what do you mean? You kill people all the time! You eat people, too! Why are you getting all stressed about killing one lone guy, an asshole at that, too?"

"I...I guess I should tell you why I was able to come pick you guys up at LC. It's...it's a long, mental story, mental in that it all took place, right inside my own head."

"Trevor, don't really have time for this-"

"Shut the _**fuck **_up and let me explain!"

"Okay, okay...just let me put this on speaker."

"What, who else is there?"

"Frankie, he's in on it. He _too_ thinks the entire charade with this guy isn't safe for any of us."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck...just let me explain. Okay, so here we go."

"Please try to skip the pleasantries."

"Fine, fine...okay, so there was this Russian gang, right? New meth lab and everything."

"Okay...go on."

"Well, you know how I feel about competition...like that bout with the O'Neil brothers..."

"Don't go any further on that peripheral of the subject, please. Don't need to mentally relive that shit..."

"Okay, okay, well, I was driving my car up to the hill where this Russian gang lived. Turns out they'd taken that old cannibal village I took out a little while ago."

"Irrelevant, get to the point."

"Fine, I couldn't do it, okay?"

"...what?"

"DON'T JUDGE ME! I COULDN'T DO IT, YOU HEARD ME!"

"...am I speaking to Trevor Phillips right now? Because this sounds nothing like Trevor Phillips. You...empathetic? That's pure insanity!"

"Fuck up, _Michael_! I couldn't do it! I don't know if that makes me stronger or weaker, but yeah, I couldn't do it! I know that I could've, and, given I'd had the blood lust, I probably would've, but I just **couldn't**."

"Okay, this is getting interesting...what exactly was going through your head at the time?"

"I...let me explain."

It was absolutely fortuitous to hear Trevor actually open up, truly spill out his guts to his own two friends. Not only did it feel enraptured to finally release all that rage, anger, fear, and self-pity; it felt freeing. Franklin had gotten a little queasy, especially at the thought that he was the reason for Trevor's abstention from killing all of those completely homicidal gang members. He'd felt that Trevor had developed some sort of crush on him; Franklin had questioned Trevor years ago, asking if he was gay, or, at least, bisexual. He'd never gotten a straight answer, but this certainly gave him more clues.

"Damn, T...I didn't know ya had it in ya," Franklin stated.

"Nice to hear from you again, F! I hope my feelings didn't scare ya..."

"You're...truly different from the person I met five years ago, Trev. This...this has been quite an education."

"I hope it has! Anyway, yeah, not in the mood for killing. Won't be for sometime..."

"...if that's the case, T, what are you gonna do when we hit Percival?" Michael inquired.

"I...I don't know. They're...projections, right? Not real people. I...I think I'll be able to handle it. Yeah, I'll have to, for you guys."

"I hope that's the case when the day comes, T. Anyway, are we still okay to kill Tyler?"

"N—no...I don't agree with it. I don't care if he's 'dangerous.'"

"T, you haven't even met this guy-"

"I DON'T NEED TO MEET 'IM! EVERYONE ON THIS PLANET HAS THE RIGHT TO LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF THE ALMIGHTY AMERICAN DOLLAR! WE ARE GOING TO TRUST THIS MAN OR SEE OUR LIVES BURN TO ASHES BEFORE HIS BETRAYAL!"

"Okay, okay! But, Trevor...you're not thinkin' straight now! You haven't even had a one- on-one discussion with this guy!"

"...fuck it! Fine, I'll talk with him. I guess that's the logical thing to do..."

"Thank you; please don't kill him yourself. He has...an intriguing mouth, to say the least..."

"Come over to my trailer, a little more professional than the strip club I own."

"...who is this?"

"It's your new partner, the person who is going to track you down, skin you alive, and wear your carcass to his next visit to the gentleman's club that he owns. I can make your build into plenty of different costumes...your insides might be tasty, too."

"And how are you going to track me down?"

"You must not be aware of who you're speaking with. I am THE Trevor **fucking** Phillips. If I say you die, you die in a more gruesome way than the mode I describe. I have a reputation for this; just ask anyone you're involved with right now, and waste more of my time."

Although Tyler was terrible with authority, out of some miraculous development, or just random common sense, he decided to heed Trevor's commands. It was just that thing about Trevor...hearing his voice sort of transfixed his listener, or "victim," somehow forcing them to do his will. Evidently, his desires and needs have been molested many times before, which is totally not to say that any that have violated him have lived to tell the tale, or have not been changed for the "better," in his own opinion.

"...nice place?"

"Good boy, have some soup."

"...there's an eye in this—a human eye, what the fuck?"

"Wasn't kidding when I yelled that shit at you; I call it Trevacular. My own language of discipline and non-idle 'threats.'"

"Like I told your friends, I don't sit well with 'authority,' especially the type that you purport to have."

"Kid, let me ask you something, have you ever involuntarily drifted in and out of consciousness due to someone else's will?"

"No-"

"Then this'll be a great new experience for you! To new beginnings and potentially bitter ends! You're gonna learn some fuckin' respect, derived from fear, before you talk seriously to me!"


	8. Finalizations

Chapter 8: Finalizations

Twelve hours, it'd seemed like. Twelve hours since Tyler had gotten himself into his own mess, only, it hadn't been that long, only to him. In reality, an hour-and-a-half hadn't even passed yet; Trevor was preparing his torture devices for his new "companion." One item was for certain: Tyler was either going to learn some respect, or learn to resist breathing in more chloroform. He'd certainly expected _some_ form of repercussion for the way he communicated with his peers; he'd just never imagined that the retaliation would be of this caliber.

"You awake yet, 'buddy?'"

"The...the fuck..."

"Don't start asking questions, that's my job! And I do it well, I don't need your help."

"I'm your fucking crew member...and you do this shit to me?"

"I don't give a rat's shit what you are, asshole, you don't fucking talk to me like that! And if you can't do that to me, you **especially** don't do that shit to my friends!"

"Look, man, I'm sorry, really, I am! Just let me go, I don't want to be experimented on..."

"Shoulda thought about that before mouthing off. Let me tell you **just who the fuck I am**. I am Trevor mother_fucking_ Phillips, and I OWN the meth industry. Not only that, you're probably the first person who's mouthed off to me and not been cut into little tiny pieces and fed to my crew members. _**Think about that**_."

"You know, fuck, if you kill me, you can kiss your 25 mil goodbye..."

"...is that brain of yours functioning correctly? Nevermind, wrong question, if it had been, you wouldn't have talked to me that way in the first place. Let me outline to you just how 'integral' you are to this mission. There are seven billion people on this planet and counting; it'll probably be eight billion in about two years. How many people do you think we can find that have the same skill level as you, if not better? Hell, why stop at that? We can find people worlds classier than you, that are much less 'mainstream!' **You're not important**."

"...then why don't you just kill me?"

"I'm sorry, maybe I didn't make this clear enough to you. **I DO THE FUCKING TALKING, NOT YOU**."

And with that bit of less-than-cordial banter, Trevor decided to put his new "patient" to sleep again; it was bad enough that Tyler was already asking questions about why Trevor, nor anyone else, had done him in yet. He was more than expendable; it now seemed like he'd _have_ to die. He knew too much, and was too smart to be left breathing. At this point, he'd either do his job, or hinder others from doing theirs'.

"This guy asks too many fucking questions, Mikee..."

"I told you that we should've killed him..."

"...did you really just say that? I SPILLED MY GODDAMN GUTS OUT TO YOU-"

"Okay, okay! I'm sorry I interjected."

"Better! Anyway, yeah, if anyone's killing him, it's you and Frank."

"Trevor...fuck, man. I've never seen you like this."

"Like _what_?"

"Well, you know...I've never seen you this hesitant."

"'Hesitant' is the wrong word, M...'morally correct' is the more astute phrase to use in this situation. I've decided to put my mass-murdering on a hiatus; isn't that a good thing?"

"Ye-yes-"

"Say no more, that was the right answer. Don't fuck it up."

"Trevor...again, how are you going to deal with the projections inside the dream sequence if you've sworn yourself against killing?"

"I'll...I'll figure it out! Jesus, Mikee, I don't have the answer to every damn question you throw at me..."

"Alright, alright...bring Tyler to Lester's house, Murrieta Heights. We need to have the entire congregation there to get everything said and done.

"Fair enough, Mikee, when?"

"3 PM, today."

"Okay, this is going to be a basic check-off to make sure everyone's ready. Tyler, since you're the least trustworthy, you're going first; don't screw this shit up," Michael stated.

"Alright, you all know I'm good at acting, even better at manipula-"

"You _try_ to manipulate people. It doesn't work on those that won't take your shit," Trevor retorted.

"Shut the-"

Michael punched Tyler in the mouth; neither of them needed Trevor to lash out at one of the crew members, especially at a time as integral as this. It was May 20th, time was running short.

"You've no idea the shitstorm I just saved you from, kiddo. Keep that mouth in check before I do it for you, again."

"-fine. Anyway, yeah, the forger, me, is ready. All of you better-"

"-shut the fuck up, Tyler. Jesus, you're more of a pain in the ass than Norton."

"Uh, right here, Trevor-"

"-I noticed. Anyway, I'll give my little piece now. The entire landscape and architecture of the state of San Andreas has been handed over to our good friend Harris, so my part is finished."

"He's right. Los Santos, Blaine County, and the IAA building will serve as the three levels of the dream sequence. Limbo still hasn't been constructed; as I recall, Michael, you wanted to work with me on that."

"Yeah, forgot about that...everyone, in order to keep our brains from turning to mush, or, at least, keeping our brains from doing that in a completely unconstructed environment with no terrain for kicks to be initiated, Paige and I are going to create the world of limbo. For those that don't know, limbo, as of yet, is _unconstructed _dream space. **Nothing** is down there, at least, nothing yet."

"To elaborate on what Michael just said, we're going to make this dream level, the fourth one in the sequence, completely habitable and able to escape from. Just try not to go there; keep in mind that if you die in the dream, you won't wake up; you'll be transported to limbo, on account of the fact that the sedative we'll be using leaves inner-ear function unimpaired, meaning that any other sense we have will be completely nullified in reality," Paige informed.

"Okay, Mota and McReary, you're next," Micheal commanded.

"We're all good to go, the both of us. We've been practicing our sharpshooting and whatnot in preparation for the job. Ammu-Nation really does the trick."

"Trevor, Franklin, you two will be supplementing Mota and McReary; both of your shooting skills are already refined, so that won't be a problem. _I_ will be the point-man, the person who basically relays Lester's orders to everyone. He'll be joining us in the dream sequence too."

"Michael, hate to burst your bubble n' all...but how the hell is the dream world going to stay stable with that many people in there? The slightest re-imagining of the environment could cause the entire landscape to kill everyone in the dream world, including your mark," Norton worried.

"Shit, we hadn't thought a that..."

"Hold up, here's what we can do. How 'bout Trevor n' I stay outta the dream sequence and just watch all a you while you go to sleep. Lester can watch you guys too, puttin' on the music to let you know when you guys should get out. That way, no one, especially Percival, can pull any funny tricks on us."

"Franklin, always the thinker...alright, but how are we gonna get Percival without alerting his subconscious? He's already in the state, so taking a flight to buy us alotta time's outta the question," Michael questioned.

"Okay, so you said he got a Adder, right? All we gotta do is hide out in his trunk, find a way to the backseat, and get him with the sedative. We take him to some remote part a San Andreas, and do our work there."

"Alright, but how are we gonna do that without alerting the bodyguards at his house? Besides, the passage from the trunk to the backseat is pretty damn small. You sure that's the way you wanna go?"

"Aight, aight...oh! I got it. We catch him drivin' around Vinewood, stop his car in the least conspicuous way possible, have someone try to steal his car, then pop him full a the stuff. He'll think it's just another carjacking, get out with his gun, threaten the guy tryin' to mug him, and we get him there. We start the dream sequence with the same situation, with him killin' the mugger, and you guys swoopin' in as his bodyguards. He won't recognize any a you!"

"Franklin, the mission is still inception. How are we going to stop him from re-operation within the state?" Norton inquired.

"Dave, if I know how to do this shit, which I don't, I think we just tell him not to. People are at their most vulnerable at their subconscious level, right?" Franklin responded.

"Right, but don't misunderstand how to do this. Before coming to you guys, I knew I had to brush up on all this psychology stuff anyway. So, I took a few classes; lot of information, but one thing that might help you here is knowing that an idea begins in a very primitive stage. What I'm trying to say is that you have to make the idea simple, a little emotional if you can, too," Norton once again informed.

"Well, Dave, how the hell are we gonna make this shit emotional if the guy we're dealin' with is just like everyone else in this godforsaken state? He's an asshole! He's not a touchy-feely guy like you probably are," Michael retorted.

"Michael, that isn't my job to figure out. I'm essentially the supervisor on this mission, which is why I'll be tagging along to make sure you get the job done and don't just say it's fine."

"Davie...if we don't do the job, the fuck are you gonna do? We got alot a dirt on you."

"A lot of dirt that can be erased in seconds with a few lead pellets to your abdomen. Besides, don't you want the money?"

"Don't you start threatenin', too...don't act like we're just a few run-a-the-mill mercenaries that you can just axe off once you feel like it."

"You're right, you're right...sorry, fine. Anyway, the main problem at hand. If you're gonna solve the issue, I suggest you do a little more research on your target. Find a sentimental relationship he has with someone else. He's bound to have a few, with all the money he has."

"Okay, meeting's done. I've got a little more work to do, so I'll tend to that."

Michael truly did ruminate with what Norton had stated; it'd also scared him a bit to know that even his own friend could dish out threats like that, even idle _at_ that. Michael's web of mistrust was finally catching up to him, and it couldn't have picked a worse time to do so. Even through this, though, all he had his mind on was this "last" job. He didn't even know what the word "last" meant anymore, because it certainly didn't mean that it was going to be the final time he ever committed x or y.

The main mission, however, was finding a relationship that Percival held dear. And, with enough luck, Michael actually did find something: an on-and-off relationship with a local stripper and prostitute named "Sapphire." Trevor had had the same type of intimacy with the young woman a few years back, but finally quit her to retreat back to his meth business, which made his sudden transformation into a pacifist that much more jarring. All that was left for Michael to do was to create the projection of Sapphire throughout all the dream levels, making her appearance in all three, possibly even four levels, as realistic as possible.

To make the idea, the prevention of re-operation of Merryweather in the state, as simple and emotional as possible, he put it under this ruse: he'd save countless lives, including Sapphire's, if he'd just abstain from retaining the license he was about to glean. Everything would work like clockwork.


	9. Preparation

Chapter 9: Preparation

It was the only "logical" conclusion Tyler had come to to ensure his own survival. Well, not only that, he wanted to commit to doing this. He hated the new people he'd just met, and not because they didn't simply submit to his harsh tone and jargon; his own life was now in danger. If he stymied the completion of this job, he wouldn't just be killed, he would die slowly and painfully, but why should anyone but him care?

From his point of view, all he'd tried to do was glean a little respect from the other people on his crew; in other words, he wanted to be the leader of the little posse they had. It wasn't like he had anything better to accomplish, him being an escapee of the Liberty City Penitentiary. He wanted to be someone, lead something, take over anything he could. He wanted to get away from his previous identity as a lanky, good-for-nothing prisoner. He'd been in there for years, not even coming close to planning any sort of escape, and yet, by fate, this entire fiasco was thrust upon him. He wanted control of the situation, to command the altercation.

This was where things started to go downhill. Not only was he not going to lead anything in this group, he was probably going to be killed or injured in some sort of way if he tried. He'd earned his teammates' hatred, and little else. However, before one was to fully understand him, that person should've realized one sole peripheral about Tyler, and human beings in general: no man is an island, and yet here he was, alone as could be.

As if sentimentality could encroach upon his stoic personality, though. Now, it was time to fix what he'd gotten himself into. Not only would he escape with his life intact, he would make much more than 25 million dollars doing it. Franklin, inherently, had made a terrible mistake picking him for the job, Tyler thought to himself.

So, Tyler had made his decision, a seemingly intelligent one at that. He lobbied to acquire the contacts of Percival, which wouldn't be hard; all he'd have to do was steal Trevor's smart phone. Okay, maybe it was going to be difficult, but it was his only mean of staying alive.

It was the night of the 20th, so Tyler knew he had to move quickly. He was aware of the fact that Trevor was smart enough to keep some form of surveillance around his trailer. Daniels, having brought himself to the trailer not too long ago, was well aware of where Trevor usually put his belongings, namely the one item he needed. So, he committed to the only logical pathway he could think of: he would just walk in, engage in a normal conversation, and waltz right back out. Knowing Trevor, he thought, he wouldn't expect him to be suspicious of the former convict stealing his phone, knowing that he was already scared straight by Trevor himself.

"Who is it? I don't like unexpected visitors."

"It's...it's Tyler."

"The fuck do you want?"

"Just came to ask a little more about what being a forger really meant."

"You're supposed to know that. I can't help you."

"Fine, fine...can I just use the bathroom, then?"

"No. Get out."

"Come on, I'm your group member!"

"Tell me what you truly want. No one, especially you, comes to others, _especially_ me, for advice, or for the bathroom."

"Okay, okay...I was hoping you'd teach me a little more about your brand of respect."

"I...I guess that's somewhat believable. You definitely need a supplement of it, too. Enter."

"Okay, teach me-"

"First off, say 'please.' It's courteous, and it makes you appear 50% less annoying.

Another thing, don't command people all the time. That's irking as shit too. If you learn how to keep your mouth shut, we might keep you around for future jobs, provided you do your current one correctly."

Tyler was slowly inching towards the phone; he was hoping with all his might that Trevor wouldn't notice. Deep down, however, he kept telling himself that his posse member indeed _would_ notice. Both of them had been on the planet long enough to realize when they were being stolen from.

"Also, I have another question. Where are you going?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"You know what I mean. You're gradually inching towards the kitchen counter. ...do you actually like my eye stew?"

"I'd like some, if that's what you're asking."

"Correct, you would, I'll get you some. Another thing, _don't move_. I don't like it when people move slowly, especially in front of me."

Closer, and closer still. Tyler was in range, and reached with his arm. Almost, and, success to crime. It was in his hand, and he slipped it into his pocket.

"Here you go!"

"Thanks."

"Eat up, I'm watching you."

Tyler ostensibly couldn't believe what he'd just gotten away with. And because he couldn't believe it, he knew that Trevor was doing something to lead him on.

"I don't want it back, I hate smartphones. But I want to know why you stole it."

"I...I don't have enough money for one. I've always wanted one, and I noticed that you had one."

Trevor began thinking, considering the fact that Tyler was essentially an abducted convict. He didn't have a choice in his being here. He then remembered Franklin again. He recalled how he'd swiftly put his neck on the line for his crew members at any time they needed him too, even during their relationship's infancy. This guilted Trevor greatly, especially realizing the fact that he was completely opposed to attachment to materialistic entities. So, out of good nature and the diminutive samaritan within him, he decided to donate it to him. It wasn't as if he couldn't buy himself a new one, a new smartphone that was faster, more efficient, and, overall, better.

"Okay, take it. A gift, from me to you. Control that mouth of yours, know your place. If you don't, I'm taking it back and eviscerating it myself."

Phase one, complete. The next section of the plan would consist of Tyler notifying Percival; how he knew that Trevor had Percival's contact was simple, he'd gained the information from Michael. He was about to make a plethora of capital. It all started with a rudimentary, detailed e-mail to Percival.

"Mr. Percival, something irrevocably terrible is going to happen to you in the next couple of days if you do not pay 50 million dollars to Tyler Daniels. More details will be revealed about this development if you choose to comply. If you don't, Merryweather Security Consulting will not be allowed to operate in the state of San Andreas ever again. -Trevor Phillips"

"Mr. Phillips, I received your e-mail, and I must state that a businessman of my caliber isn't frightened by your petty death threats. I am aware of how I should deal with mercenary scum such as yourself. If you threaten me again, I will send soldiers of my own to kill you at your own doorstep. -Don Percival"

"Go ahead and try, you'll find them dead as can be once I'm finished with them."

"You're fortunate that a Mr. Daniels is not on the books at the current moment. I will send the money to you after this catastrophe you're talking about takes place."

"Good enough for me, this will help both of us. In a couple of days, in fact, this weekend most likely, a random mugger will try to steal your car from you. Go along with the charade; you're going to be tranquilized and transported to a random location in San Andreas. Make sure to keep a tracker on you so that the authorities can find your location when they need to. I'm sure you're aware of the fact that the mugging was all a ruse: the real goal these terrorists are after is the committing of inception on you. They'll be attempting to stop you from regaining the license for Merryweather to operate in the state once more."

"Mr. Phillips, I must ask, why do you have such a propensity towards helping me? And who is Tyler Daniels?"

"If you haven't guessed already, I'm Tyler Daniels. I was able to commandeer Mr. Phillip's phone, and will be able to help you escape your captors come the day of. However, I must advise you not to bring any protection during the first increment of their heist. They'll be armed to the teeth throughout most of the process, and they're trained in dealing with multitudes of highly trained mercenaries. I've done my research; these are the same individuals that committed the Union Depository heist back in 2013, some of the most dangerous criminals the world has ever seen. I'll also need to put on the facade of helping them; I know most of their plan, so I can relay that information to you once you're able to retrieve me from their jurisdiction once we enter the dream sequence."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Daniels, I will accept your aid in kind. Thank you for your notification, your money will be with you, provided the inception is not completed."

Tyler knew that by sending and replying to these e-mails, he was either signing his own death certificate, or agreeing to a lifetime in the Bahamas, free from worrying about financial security and the like. In this, this was his only leap of faith, and a chance to keep his own life secure. Even after all of this, he still couldn't wrap his head around how he'd "snuck" around Trevor. Perhaps he was just lucky, maybe that was the only entity keeping him alive at the moment. Pure luck was what Tyler ran on, and his luck was about to lead him into the financial opportunity of a lifetime.

Main finalizations of the heist were still underway: this was due in part by the fact that Michael and Paige still needed to congregate to create the dream world.

"Ready, M."

"Good, so, what do you want the limbo level to be of?"

"I...want it to be of the FIB building, as well as any physical peripherals that might surround the complex. The area where the kick will be administered will be at the top of the structure; it should be easily accessible through a secret elevator that takes inhabitants straight to the top."

"Are there any other shortcuts throughout any of the remaining landscapes?"

"Yes; there is a shortcut freeway that is underground, protruding through Vinewood hills, leading to the former house of the late Devin Weston. That's evidently for Los Santos, specifically Chumash. For Blaine County, I've included a dirt trail that leads to the cannibal village on Mount Chiliad. Finally, in the IAA building, there is a secret compartment in suite 8, on the 100th floor, that leads to a room on top of the structure itself, where the projection of Sapphire will reside. This is where the bulk of the job will take place; Percival must obviously be brought there for the inception to be complete."

"We have to keep this information between the two of us. If others need to know, they will be notified. I especially don't want Daniel to found out about this, though. It's simply too dangerous."

"Gotcha. When do you think we can move on this?"

"I'm thinkin'...Saturday, May 26th. 8 AM."

"I'll inform the others. Tomorrow, huh?"

"I don't mean to be the drama-queen, although I usually am, but if this fails, all of us are going to get killed."

"And if we hadn't moved on this in the first place, the same outcome would arise, by the same hands, _Merryfuckingweather_."

"I appreciate your tenacity, Paige. Good luck tomorrow."

"You too, M, you too."


	10. Incursion

Chapter 10: Incursion

"Today's the day, folks, and we have two hours until we move out. This gives you ample time get in position for 8 AM; I needn't remind you that we're going to be in Percival's subconscious for the better part of the day, a duration of about eight to ten hours," Michael stated.

"Shit, Frankie...we forgot to coordinate who would be taking shifts! How 'bout this, we take an hour each, one watching, the other jacking the watcher off," Trevor said.

"That's good n' all, T, but I think we'll just stick to an hour each, one can do whatever they want, the other supervises. Sounds good?"

"Alright, alright."

The entire group, including Tyler, moved into their respective positions. The events taking place were now on his side; Percival knew what he looked like, meaning that they were both ready to take out one of the most notorious crime rings in recent human history. With all of the odds against the team, this may have very well been Michael's, as well as everyone else's, "last heist."

"We'll be communicating through bluetooth; don't worry, Trevor, no one'll be tracking us. We're not important enough for that. Anyway, Tyler, since you look the most likely to mug someone on the street, you'll be the one casing Percival," Michael informed.

"On it."

"...you're oddly agreeable today. Is it Trevor's smartphone that's preventing you from being a complete pain in the ass?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"Whatever, anyway, yeah, get in position. Also, my bad; initials from now on, please. If some of you have the same ones, just use the initials of your last name."

Percival's vehicle was in view, and Tyler was preparing to carry out his section of the plan. Everything was transpiring swimmingly as of yet.

Tyler jumped in front of the mark, and Percival attempted to act as surprised and disheveled as he possibly could. He took the gun from his dashboard, got out, and pointed it straight at Daniels' head. Then, everything got quiet, at least for Don.

"Got him!" Michael exclaimed, hitting Percival in the neck with the sedative.

Tyler hastily rallied Percival's catatonic body into the vehicle and drove it to the designated area; the authorities weren't in pursuit, which surprised all but the two obvious suspects. Unfortunately for the rest of the crew, they weren't even attempting to notice this small yet crucial peripheral. Everything was taking place according to plan.

The entire group met immediately inside the now decrepit Lost hideout; Trevor had conveniently cleared it out a couple of years ago, making this the perfect place to congregate.

"T, F, I realize that the area I'm asking you to guard is a bit open, but I firmly believe that you won't be running into any heat anytime soon. Even if you do encounter any cops, I'm sure you'll dispatch them with ease. Good luck, oh yeah, and Trevor, don't be a pussy," Michael said.

"Didn't quite catch that, _Michael._"

"Initials. Only. And I want you to do your job, not worry about your own thoughts and emotions. Again, good luck."

And that's when it hit him. _No police officers had arrived at the scene, or chased them subsequently_. Michael was now aware of this, and worked swiftly to alert everyone else.

"Uh...that reminds me...no heat bothered us on the way here."

"Good! Makes the job easier for us, and you know how I feel about killing."

"Right, you're going to need to do something about that, again, but that's beside the point right now. Does no one find it strange or bizarre that no authorities even gave chase to us here? Makes me feel like someone knows something they shouldn't..."

"Well, if that were the case, which I highly doubt, my bet would be that our friend Tyler did something he wasn't supposed to do...Tyler, why did you take my smartphone again?"

"Because I never had one and thought it'd be cool."

"TELL ME THE REAL REASON!"

At this point, Tyler was out of excuses. It'd seemed like he was caught, and that would be the end of it. He began praying in his head for **something** to happen, a random event that would save him from the impending calamity he would have to face if it didn't.

"T, man, we don't got time for this. 'Sides, M said initals. Pay attention to that; let's get to work; like I said before, work first, bicker later," Franklin interjected.

Saved by Franklin once again, Tyler thought. He then thought about how naive they all were, even though his life had just been single-handedly saved yet again, by the same person.

"The music that'll let you know the kick should be coming soon will be the same that they used in the movie 'Inception,' which reminds me, we forgot to get the specialist on the anesthetics..." Trevor stated.

"T, we'll wing it like we always have. We'll be fine."

The tubes were plugged into everyone's wrists, and within a minute or two, the button on the PASIV machine was pressed, and they went to work. They were transported back to the Vinewood intersection they'd acquired Percival in, tackled him, and acted as if they were protecting him. Then, his subconscious started going to work. They began flying frivolously, hoping that any of the stray bullets they'd lazily shot would hit one of the crew.

Good planning would be the sole entity to bring this plan to fruition, even if it were impaired by Percival's new knowledge of the itinerary itself; the entire group was wearing some of the best bulletproof armor on the market, with at least a a thousand magazines of ammunition for all the weapons they were carrying. They were more than armed to the teeth, some could say that they were armed to their own intestines. Percival played along, aware of the fact that the authorities wouldn't be long in capturing the individuals guarding his body, including Tyler.

No way in hell would Percival pass up the chance to capture yet another member of the crew that perpetrated the UD bank job. Even if Tyler wasn't part of it, him being part of the posse at all indicated that he was some form of criminal royalty, despite him being factually the opposite. If the police failed to apprehend his captors, he would attempt to kill them all in the dream sequence himself, and escape the best he could.

He realized that if the cops, or any other type of authority failed to eliminate the people surrounding him, he'd be killed automatically, whether that was logical on the part of his guards or not. He began to ponder this even more: he would die anyway, both outcomes being by their hand. He thought to himself that if they were committing inception on him, it would've been impossible for them _not_ to have considered killing him; what they were doing now must've been a secondary, tertiary, or even quaternary option; if their ploy failed, death would be imminent for him, because that would be the only option they'd have left for at least stymying the re-operation of Merryweather within the state. He evidently didn't think this through, then he remembered, again: these were the same people that killed Devin Weston, as well as pulled the UD job; they were accustomed to large amounts of enemy fire.

He began to realize the severity of the situation he'd involuntarily gotten himself into, and started feeling a little fearful, a little queasy. His own life truly was in danger, and not because of some death threat written over e-mail, but because the sordid feeling he was having was not unfounded.

"You need to get up and come with us, _right now_!" Paige yelled.

"...who the fuck are you?!" Percival retorted.

"Not important right now, sir. All you need to know is that your life, as well as the survival of Merryweather, hang in the balance," McReary stated.

Percival entered the van allotted, a fast one at that. Through all of this, all he could do was hope that the authorities would gain the upper hand over whatever defense he'd guessed was set up to stop them from interfering with the dream sequence. He had no idea the precautions his captors had taken; if he did know, he'd have probably taken his own life before the entire altercation began.

The only defense he had was his subconscious militarization. He knew that even at that very moment, his own projections were closing in on the criminals that had kidnapped him, posing as Merryweather agents. What he was _not_ aware of, however, was the fact that they were completely prepared for them, not only in the way of artillery, but also in the aspect of hiding. The entire landscape was a giant maze with a Los Santos theme, and he was indubitably ignorant of the ins and outs of the architecture of this enigma. Again, all he could do was hope, as well as play along.

"Allow me to explain to you who that was," Michael explained.

"That was a member of a crew which collaborated to kill you, knowing the fact that the re-operation of Merryweather within the state of San Andreas was at hand. They had an entire plot ready to discard your body and stop your company from regaining their license. Since they will not be the only ones affected by this new development, there will undoubtedly be other plans to kill you. We have intelligence that will inform you on when and how they will try to eliminate you. To drill all the information into your head, we've chosen inception."

"...why the hell can't you just send me an e-mail of all the information-"

"That was a half-assed explanation, M," Mota said.

"We really should've planned this more. Can't believe I just said all of that. You know, we might be in trouble for the next level."

"Thankfully, he won't remember any of that, mostly because it's a dream," Norton mediated.

"Where are we going?" Tyler asked.

"Weston's house, Chumash. There, we're going to go a level deeper, taking Percival to Blaine County."

They were about halfway to their destination, winding in and out of the hills that succeeded Vinewood; projections were waiting. Percival's subconscious would prove much more than militarized; it would be a downright slaughter if the group made a wrong move or turn. Snipers were stationed all throughout the range, and they began firing.

"...what was that?" Mota asked, concerned.

"I...don't know. McReary, are you having trouble driving?"

"Yeah...having trouble turning, shit!"

The window broke, and bullets haled the van; all of the members took cover.

"Fuck, this is just like the movie...protect Percival!" Michael screamed.

"Shit, we're gonna have to find a new car! SIT DOWN! SIT DOWN-" McReary stopped.

"Oh shit...shit, shit, shit! McReary's hit! Fuck, fuck! We need to find a different car, this one's shit now."

"How the hell are we gonna find a new car when we're in the middle of the hills with snipers pointing rifles right at our hea-" Tyler stopped too.

One paramount point to understand about inception was the fact that no matter how hard the mark tried, he or she could not exercise control over his or her subconscious. Both McReary and Tyler were now in limbo; both were instructed on how to escape, but this proved to be an immediate setback to the rest of the crew.

"Okay, okay, I have a plan," Michael said.

"Better be a fucking good one, considering we might all be dead within the next five minutes..." Paige angrily stated.

"Okay, they won't hurt Percival. We can use him as a shield, and threaten to kill him if they kill any one of us."

"Wow, that's got to be one of the worst plans I've ever heard," Mota said.

"If you got anything better, shit it out, Mota. Yeah, didn't think you had one. Anyway, we're moving with this."

They gingerly maneuvered the body outside of the vehicle, immediately yelling that they'd kill Percival if a single bullet was fired by any of the snipers. They gradually moved down the road, closing in on the house in Chumash. They hoped against hope that there wouldn't be a car to steal, and, as luck would have it, they found another vehicle, hopped in, and trekked the rest of the way to the complex.

"I know I've speculated on this before, but I feel like Percival knows something," Michael worried.

"If he does, we need to get him to the third level as quickly as possible, and commit the inception on our own," Harris stated.

"How the fuck are we gonna do that when he needs to realize his own idea?" Michael questioned.

"If you truly did pay attention to the movie, you'd know that inception can be perpetrated by people other than the mark his or herself. All we'd have to do is...damn thinking about the method of inception we're using, yeah, you're right, we're going to have to have Percival along with us. Shit..."

"Back-up plan?" Michael was sweating like a pig.

"Okay, okay, if he knows what we're doing, we speed to the third level, we keep him quiet until we reach Sapphire's room, and we give him a weakened dose of anesthetic so that he'll be out of his element," Mota suggested.

"Guess we have more than one idea-man on this job...but who's going to be the anesthesiologist? No one here is experienced in that; if one of us makes any mistakes, we could send him to limbo, making this even more difficult. Besides, if he is indeed aware of _any of this_, he probably alerted the authorities before the job even began. Question is how he knew about any of this..."

"Is that a serious question? It's obviously Tyler," Paige interceded.

"Yeah, you're right, but he's in limbo right now. We don't have any way of contacting McReary, so he's just going to have to get it on his own."

"M, if I can ask, why didn't you pop a cap in Tyler's ass the minute he mouthed off to you? It was evident from the beginning that he wasn't to be trusted..." Paige said.

"It's...it's complicated. Has to do with Trevor. Anyway, back to business. If we're gonna get this done, we need to be swift; projections are probably closing in on this location right now, if they're not here already. Someone's gotta keep guard."

"Keep guard? That may work in Weston's house, but I doubt it will in the next level. The cannibal village will be completely open."

"Well, if you got somethin', I'm all ears, since we're running out of time on this."

"All we have to do is get back in the car and have a designated driver. Mota, you can do that; Mike, Norton, and I'll be fine down there. If, damn, okay, it'll just be easier to use full names, McReary and Tyler come back, they'll most likely be wandering the entire landscape, and get killed again, so we can't worry about them."

"Sounds good. I'm an okay driver anyway. Let's go."

The remaining members of the congregation hid in the house, utilizing the built in defense system that had been left by Weston himself. Needless to say, it would've been useful had it been used to protect Percival on the day he died, but that was irrelevant to the plight of the crime ring at the current time. There, they all descended another level.


	11. The Battle of Blaine County

Chapter 11: The Battle of Blaine County

"So, uh...T? Wanted to know what you wanted to do about the heat not showin' up," Franklin asked.

"Even though I'm sure our crew members wouldn't recommend it, I'd just kill Tyler in his sleep right now."

"...but I thought you had a problem with killing?"

"I...I do...but I have much less of a problem when someone deliberately puts others' lives in danger, especially when they're involved in treacherous work to do so."

"Aight...let's do it."

"Sorry, Frank, can't do it yet. Especially since I see the police on the horizon, fuck I have to kill them too..."

"Now is not the fucking time to get all sentimental on my ass, T! Eye on the ball and shoot those mothafuckas!"

"Fuck...good idea, but I guess I'll just have to leave my feelings for _another _goddamn time..."

"Fire!"

And Trevor had done it again, betrayed his own feelings. He guessed that at least he was putting his own sentiments aside for an admirable cause: saving his friend from being killed. But, time and again, Trevor would have to put his own policies and MO on hold, damaging his own state of mental health. This would definitely worsen that. But, this time, he would be doing it to save someone, not hurt someone. It was bitter-sweet.

The use of the word "backfiring" was an understatement when it came to the case of Tyler. He was now dead, five bullets in his head; he wouldn't be coming back to haunt any of the posse members in any job they'd have in the future. It was in no way bitter to the individuals that killed him; they took pride in doing so, especially since the entire fiasco was dealt with in a matter of seconds.

"Good riddance to that pain in the ass..." Trevor stated.

"I hear ya—get in position, here they are!"

This would've been a routine clean-up, had the army not decided to butt in. An entire military force had arrived in conjunction with the Blaine County Police Department. This would be one hell of a firefight, and if Trevor and Franklin survived, it'd be a miracle.

"Holy shit...we're not gonna be able to handle all this heat, T! We gotta call in someone...anyone, fuck!"

They took cover in any place they could, the location being routinely showered by a maelstrom of lead bullets and shells.

"Good thing we got ammo for days, F! I'm gonna use the rocket launcher, take cover and kill anyone you can! God, I love situations like this..."

Bullet after bullet, shell after shell, all the bloodshed didn't seem to matter. On top of that, Franklin was very surprised at Trevor, startled at how quickly Trevor could break his rule in the face of imminent death. He was thankful and yet, perplexed. This also provided a necessitated tangent from Phillips' usual code of ethics. Of course, though, he wasn't going to ask why this was so. Now was certainly_ not_ the time for that, even if they weren't going to make it out of the altercation all in one piece.

"Wave after wave, feels good putting the Lizard Army in the ground, back where they come from! Get a load of my ammunition, you sentimentally ephemeral motherfuckers!"

At this point, all that was keeping both of them alive was the body armor they'd previously purchased; other than that, it was their own skill and, to some degree, luck, that was preserving their very life force.

"F, if you can get backup, I suggest you call it in now. Besides, who the fuck are you gonna call, anyway?"

"Who else? Ballas!"

"Didn't you take out their leader, though?"

"Michael's the one who did that, but I guess it scared 'em shitless, 'cause I was getting' mad respect after that shit! Motherfuckers think I'm some sorta godfather now!"

And just as Franklin predicted, the gang he'd commissioned did indeed arrive, even with the palpable amount of danger surrounding the immediate area. The ensuing action was so bloody that some could've called it "The Battle of Blaine County." So many people, dead; Franklin estimated the casualties to be well above a hundred, possibly even two, or three, or four.

Then, he began to ponder; if so many military and gang personnel were perishing at this one particular firefight, why on earth _wouldn't _the federal government commission Merryweather to operate in the state again? In a contemporary sense, it seemed necessitated; but, as of yet, the criminal underworld was showing quite a bit of militaristic muscle on its own. Hopefully, given enough retaliation and resistance, the feds would just leave San Andreas alone, denominating it a losing battle in which resources simply wouldn't be spent economically. With all of this, the fight continued.

Still, though, more federal personnel were arriving at the scene, many calling for reinforcements of their own; evidently, saving _one man_, Percival, would be easier said than done. Franklin surmised that he wouldn't be the only one to be aware of why a crime ring would go though so much trouble to capture one businessman; he was aware of the fact that the IAA, as well as the greater FIB would soon find out as well. All one could do was hope in this situation, that all the trouble they'd gone through would prevent Merryweather's re-manifestation from coming to fruition. They continued to fire into the air, hoping that one of those minutes, the authorities would give in.

The firefight would drone on for almost twelve hours; the group would have to sedate Percival once again to keep him safe during the initial battle.

"M, you know where we are?" Paige inquired.

"Yeah...I think we're in that hospital in the middle of Blaine County."

"We need to move...okay work so far, everyone," Norton complimented.

"_Appreciated_, Dave. We have to move, though. Since this is a new dream, projections aren't going to be moving on us yet. Make sure to keep Percival completely safe; we don't have to make ourselves look threatening yet. Mota, you're at the front; we all have to make our way to the cannibal village on Mount Chiliad. Paige tells me there's a marked trail leading up to there; follow that. Percival, I'm sure I don't have to state this more than once. If you don't comply with what we tell you, killing you in the dream won't be the end of your demise. You _will_ die in reality, because if we wake up without the inception being complete, we will order our guards to kill you. Understand?"

"Ye-yes...ye-yes...fuck..."

The remaining individuals made their way to the previously indicated dirt corridor, minding any crevice they could view to make sure that no projections would surprise them. They began seeing other people in the dream, all assumed to be just that. They were all aware, though, that if they did nothing to change the scenery, or threaten the subject, they'd be fine.

Percival did as he was told, and within an hour's time in the dream, they'd reached their destination. All that was left was to venture to the top of the IAA building, plant Don there, and watch the inception do its magic. He was out of options; there was no doubt in his mind that if the inception didn't do what it was supposed to do, his captors would have no choice but to kill him in the future; they'd gone through a lot of trouble without killing him to convince him not to operate in the state again. If he were to cause _any_ trouble again, it would be his life, and it was obvious to all of them, especially him, that he was not ready to die.

Then, he remembered: these were criminals: Unpredictable, slimy little people, at least, in his opinion. Their actions weren't up for assertion or assumption, meaning that his death may have already been planned. He surmised that this was all just a big distraction, a flimsy reason _not_ to kill him, when, in reality, they were probably going to get to that within a month's time. What was the reason for letting Percival live after he'd denied his license? In light of this, he decided to completely disobey any order given to him from there on in.

"Okay, third level, let's mo-" Michael was killed.

The entire group, except for Paige, was eliminated. She knew her mission; incapacitate Percival and take him to the top level to complete the inception. She was likely smarter than all the group combined; she was aware of how to deal with situations of this caliber.

Percival, in his own mind, was now safe. All he'd have to do was wait out the timer on the PASIV machine, attempt to kill the guards, and escape. At this point, he didn't care if he lived or died; again, he assumed that he'd probably be done in anyway. For the first time in his adult life, it seemed as if everything was out of his hands; this was his way of taking that power back.

This being so, Paige obviously had ample time to capture her target. She made her way to the upper offices, and opened a secret control room that she'd constructed for this particular incident. She'd made control centers like this for each level she'd created; this was her chance to use it. Commandeering the controls, she turned on the guns stationed at the ceiling for each floor of the glass building, and began opening fire. One projection, two projections, three, and so on. However, she knew that she'd have to control the weapons at her disposal to some extent so as not to harm the one person she needed alive.

Unbeknownst to her, however, projections re-spawned, and hey were currently en route to her location, prodding their way through each nook and cranny of the federal structure. This is where her sharpshooting skills and overall tenacity would come into play; she'd have to kill her way through each floor, eventually retrieving her target. She'd also prepared for this situation, too; she took a remote with her, controlling each and every weapon within the building. Hopefully, this would be a cakewalk for the skilled hacker; she was aware that it wouldn't be, but it was pleasant being in control.

One floor down, then another, then another. Even though the people she was killing weren't real, she had a sort of sickly sense towards the mass-murdering that she was committing. Gradually but surely, she'd finally reached Percival, and shot him full of the weakened sedative she'd had on hand. She took him up to Sapphire's room, and left him there, guarding the complex.

Succeeding in what she was trying to do, she proceeded to ponder how the entire assemblage would escape from limbo without being immediately thrown back in due to the projections that were most likely guarding their bodies. She was well aware of the fact that the accomplishment of the job solely depended on her ability to keep Percival in there, thus completing the inception. She was also in the know about the fact that it wouldn't take long for the projections to locate her, subsequently killing in her any way they could. This was it; no turning back. The job either succeeded or failed, and there was no way of Norton knowing whether it would've gone either way. They'd have to threaten him to get the money they wanted.

For once, Michael, as well as the rest of the congregation, were not in control of where the money was coming from. The entire profit would depend singularly on luck, and luck alone. She went as far as to consider how much heat might be residing outside of the boundaries of the structures they'd placed their comatose bodies in. She was hoping against hope that Trevor and Franklin were dead. Maybe they'd gotten reinforcements, maybe they were able to somehow outsmart the attackers knocking on their doorstep, maybe they'd died. At this point, however, she didn't care. All that mattered was the success of the job, and the music was coming. Lester would be the one turning it on, and that would be that.

On top of all of this, she'd also have to retrieve those that had fallen into limbo. To do this, she would undoubtedly have to find a secluded area, one in which she wouldn't have even a smattering of a chance of being found by any wandering projections; she would have to rely on the awoken individuals on the third level of the dream to protect her. So, she resolved to do just that, although, finding an area akin to those details would be more than difficult, as she didn't account for this happening at any time during the job.

It looked like she'd have to commit more merciless killing; that wasn't the issue, however. The problem was doing all of that, and coming out alive. If she were to fall into limbo, there would be no way out, as the projections would be successfully guarding any body they found. If she failed in doing this, it would be fatal.


	12. Inception

Chapter 12: Inception

Paige didn't have the time or resources to look after the currently transpiring inception; she had to revive her colleagues. To do this, she'd have to search every nook and cranny of the IAA building to locate all the dead bodies, holster them to safety, and hope that they could get themselves out. The latter part of the plan would have to be accomplished by those in the fourth dream level itself; this being known to her, she inferred that her friends were continuously reviving and getting themselves killed on account of the projections that were most likely guarding their comatose bodies.

This would indubitably complicate the matter for Paige, seeing as how she was now out of ammunition and, if she imagined more while in the dream sequence, the projections would swarm her current location. She was in quite a bind, one with no easy or elementary answer. She was nearly out on ammunition partitioned from the ceiling machine guns as well; for this mission, she'd have to fall back on her own strength, what she'd gleaned from numerous jobs in the past. She'd dealt with situations akin to this before; now, it wasn't like she was a full-blown martial artist, but she could throw a punch or two.

She started descending levels, the one below her for starters. She hid on the side of the internal part of the elevator, waiting for the projections, _hopefully_ one, especially with a gun or two, to enter the compartment and give her what she needed. As luck would have it, one projection **did** enter the elevator, inopportune for him. Paige immediately punched him in the gut and hit his face with her boot, breaking the neck of the dangerous assailant. She stole his gun, as well as his bullions of ammunition, and scouted the level. Each room, each office space, each hall, nothing, and there were at least fifty levels on the building itself. She'd have to find a better way if she was going to preserve the bodies of her colleagues.

Then, she thought to herself. There was a much cleaner, more optimized way of going about this entire fiasco: using the control room she'd ventured out of not too long ago. She carried herself to the slightly guarded blue room, killing both thugs there. She then proceeded to put some ammo in the machine gun in that room, and went to work. Fortunate for her, there were cameras stationed all throughout the perilous gauntlet of a federal building; she proceeded to use each one, turning on the special features of the camera in tandem: the heat signature provided from the new-age technology helped tremendously. All she had to do was look for cold signatures of heat in a in the form of a human body.

And that's when she realized: there were at least a hundred people that would have those specific characteristics. A plethora of people had been gunned down right before her eyes on the screens she was watching; it could potentially take even longer to sift through the countless deceased bodies, hoping to find the couple bodies she was looking for. Michael and Dave could be anywhere, among all those dead bodies, so, she elected to initiate another practice of the futuristic cameras she had at her disposal; body identification.

This would be done through the decision of vehicular credentials, specifically, driver's licenses. All she'd have to do was identify each individual body and find their license, scanning the chip hidden away the small piece of plastic, allowing her to check the body. She ran a search query for "Michael De Santa" (Michael's fake name) and "Dave Norton," coming up with both of the matches, evidently both on the same floor, the sixth.

She was gone as swiftly as she'd entered, escaping to the sixth floor, and moving gingerly at that. She checked around each corner, venturing through the diminutive corridors that smelled of chemicals from cleaning products, along with sweat, killing any projection she found. And then, she saw them, right there on the floor, bleeding out. This would be more onerous and difficult than she'd once guessed. Not only would she have to kill all the projections currently stationed there, she'd also have to uncover where a first-aid kit could be found. In short, she'd have to case the entire level, risking death for herself along the way. In addition, if the other projections were to find her, she'd just have to take it and hope they dropped spare ammo, because she wouldn't be able to conjure anymore, for fear that even more projections would swarm the ensuing area. This would be by no means a simple task, and she would possibly have to do it for up to twenty minutes. Still though, she persevered; she'd been in situations reminiscent of this before, specifically the UD job; she'd grown in many ways since then.

She immediately killed all the armed guards in rapid succession, took what ammo and guns she could salvage, and waited. Throughout all of this, however, it irked her knowing that she could do nothing but wait for the inception to be completed; she could do nothing to catalyze or facilitate the process in any way. All she had that remedied this fledgling annoyance was the fact that if the job was not completed, she could kill Percival; all of them could.

"Sapphire...is that you?"

"Yes, Don, yes."

"Wait, fuck, what am I talking about? I'm in a dream sequence! You're only here to fuck with me and get me to do what you want me to do."

"Well, Don, just because I'm a figment of your subconscious, doesn't mean that what you're going to do in a few days won't affect me."

"The license won't hurt you...you're a stripper!"

"And a prostitute."

"...oh."

"Understand this, Don. If you retrieve that license come Friday, the 1st, you won't just be hurting the people who've put you into this mess. You'll be hurting me, my family, most of my relatives, everyone. Merryweather is more dangerous than you think, and it can't be controlled by one man."

"You're talking about my work like it's Skynet or something."

"Well, fuck, Don, I honestly don't know what to say. ...did you know that when the gross domestic product is calculated, it includes profits made by the black market too? You'll be hurting the economy as well if you get that license."

"I don't care, it's more money in my pocket."

"You honestly don't care about any of what I've just said? Do you really love me, Don?"

"You're a stripper _and_ a prostitute; you 'love' people everyday, your affection towards me is in no way differentiated."

"Fine, then I'll leave you with this: if Merryweather operates in the state of San Andreas once again, it'll be making twice the money it was making only a few months ago. This being fact, don't you think that other people will invest in the corporation? It's open to the public, meaning that people can take as many shares as they want. What if you make a mistake while running the business and the board members choose to let you go, or even worse, get you _killed_? It'll be too much to handle, and unless you have an iron grip on the company, which, from the looks of where you are now, you certainly do not, not only will the retrieval of the license kill all the people I've just listed; it'll kill you too.

"You _do_ realize that Merryweather was operating in the state five years ago, right?"

"Oh, that's fucking it!"

Sapphire punched Percival in the face, and kicked him multiple times while he was down. When he woke up, Sapphire was at the center of the compound; he wasn't full oriented yet, though. Realizing this, she seized the moment and parted with these words: "Your choices, as well as those of others, affect more than one's self."

It was strange, though, the way in which Percival acted. Being the "intelligent" business man that he was, it'd seem second nature to him to protect his own life. His obstructive attitude towards Sapphire completely deviated from this virtue; he was still aware of the fact that if the inception was not completed, he would die. To a further degree, he was also in the know of the fact that even if the inception did function properly, the same gang that was now threatening his existence would probably cause more problems for him. Both roads lead to him being dead and, again, all he could hope for was their eventual demise. Whether he'd gotten that or not at this point was completely beside anything he cared about, especially knowing that some of the members of the crime ring he was facing were still alive, and just as lethal as ever.

In his physical confusion, he decided to go with the simpler, long-term option: allowing the inception to take hold. Even if he resolved to do this, however, it still wouldn't help the group currently. No one could, can, or would ever be able to control their subconscious.

"Woah, shit!"

"Wake up, M. You're back in the IAA building."

"Fuck, thanks, Paige...Jesus. How 'bout Davie?"

"Getting the defibrillator prepared for him as well. Good thing you woke up, I've been killing projections for the past few hours, running out of ammo because of that. Shoot with me."

"Did you get Percival in the box?"

"Yep, but as you and I both know, he knows what we're up to. My guess is that the inception won't go through. This being said, however, heat have probably arrived at the scene, which means we'll have no time to dispose of Percival's body. We'll just have to hope it works."

"Well, we tried; incoming!"

"Cover my while I revive Norton!"

"OH SHIT! Fuck...I feel like I just drank twenty red bulls!" Norton exclaimed.

"You'd be dead if that were the case. Grab a gun and kill the projections."

"I'm sure you've all guessed by now, but Tyler's betrayed us. He's dead, though; didn't see him in limbo."

"That's good n' all, but we're outta time. We need to ascend the floors, get Percival out of the box, and get the hell outta here. The closer we are to reality in terms of levels, the more our brains will be functional when we get outside. I'm sure all of you are aware; we're going to have a hostile 'welcoming' party upon resuscitation. I hope to god our guards, as well as Lester, are alive when we come back..."

The group, reunited, traveled all the way back to the compartment they'd abandoned, taking Percival out. To make their job even more difficult, none of them could fall asleep, for fear of waking up in limbo and making all of their jobs harder. They kept Percival alive and conscious the entire time, taking to the top of the building, and jumping off.

Second level, Blaine County. Mota was doing a "bang-up" job of driving the van every which-way to avoid the projections that seemed to bombard the vehicle at every intersection. He'd made the intelligent decision to gradually make his way to the top of Mount Chiliad, at which point he'd drive the van off the cliff, delivering the necessitated kick. Just as he was about to, the entire crew woke up, gathering their thoughts.

"About fuckin' time, all a you!" Mota screamed.

"Would you calm your ass down? Sorry we couldn't be your 'turrets,' Michael deplored.

"Fine, shit...how'd it go?"

"Whether the inception sunk in or it didn't, 'Percy' here is going to get a free ride and a get-out-of-jail free card! I'm sure you've guessed; Tyler went rogue and ratted on us. We'll be lucky if we exit the dream at all at this point; the cops have the place surrounded."

"As CEO of Merryweather, I can assure you that I will no longer be pursuing any license to re-operate in this great state!"

"That better be fuckin' true, 'cause if it isn't, we'll just kill ya, as I'm sure you've guessed."

"Is that...Dave-" Paige subdued him.

"And that is why people like you need to keep your face covered and your mouth shut, Norton!" Michael whispered.

"Sorry, sorry..."

"Brace yourselves. We're about to go off the cliff."

First level, Los Santos. The group quickly awakened themselves and set out to search for McReary's body. They knew where they'd left him; the only question was how they were going to retrieve his body, especially with no first-aid kit or, specifically, a defibrillator in sight. Then, they remembered: they were in the late Devin Weston's house; there was bound to be something akin to what they were looking for. With this simple common sense, they found one, and quickly got in one of the closest cars they could find.

Killing the first projections was the simple part upon exiting the household; the tricky increment would be retrieving _and_ reviving Packy's body. Mota would be driving yet again, and the passengers would be the turrets, excluding Percival.

Eventually, they'd made it to McReary, with many bullets fired in the process. It seemed like they were combating an entire army, and, in some ways, they were. With every piece of lead fired, a projection was killed or injured, and the streets were full of imaginary bodies, filled with delusive blood.

"We need to get the body together; make sure Dave and Percival are covered, as well as me. Gus, I need you to cover me personally, help me bring the body into van. Once that's done, we revive, and we drive the vehicle into the ocean, ourselves in it," Paige stated.

"Hey! Isn't this the real world?" Percival inquired.

"Obviously not, since we just said that we were going to kill ourselves. Besides, you were the one who pointed out that this was the beginning of the dream sequence in the first place. Just be patient."

"Oh my god! Definitely a rush...don't mean to be cliché n' all, but what did I miss?"

"A lot. We'll have to explain once we get away from the authorities in the real world, which could be very time-consuming."

"Sigh...perfect."

The crew, as well as Percival, loaded into the van, and started driving along the western coast of San Andreas, looking for an opening out into the ocean. This was it; it didn't matter if the inception was successful or not. They started to hear the music that would signify if the dream was finished. Slowly, but surely, they approached a cliff that lead into the ocean, and drove off of it.

"Finally! Get up, all of you! I've killed at least five police officers since you went under! Awake, now!" Lester yelled.

"So glad to hear-"

"Shut the fuck up and kill people, Michael! Jesus!"

The posse moved outside of the trailer they'd been in. Killing people along the way, they noticed something missing from the air. They couldn't possibly put their finger on it, however; the confusion was much more than palpable, much more than deadly or lethal.

"T, F! Where are you guys?!" Michael yelled.

He searched adamantly, no relent in sight for him. He had to have killed at least twenty police officers before he came to his dreaded, sordid realization: they weren't there anymore. Among the bodies of deceased Ballas, police officers, and general infantry, he found one of the two he was looking for, now no more than a deceased carcass. Franklin was dead, a bullet to the head ending his heroic yet malicious life. And that was all it took. If Franklin was dead, who was to say that Trevor hadn't suffered the same fate?

His assumptions held weight; he kept searching, eventually finding Trevor, dead as well. He couldn't take it. Of all the things that could happen to him, his family was now taken away. In that moment, as well, he discovered that he truly did not care about the fate of his own biological family during that heist over fifteen years ago. He didn't care about Amanda, he didn't care about Jimmy, he didn't care about Tracey. All along, all he'd truly cared about was what happened to his two best friends, his lifelong companions, his partners in crime: Trevor and Franklin. It took him twenty five years to realize that for Phillips, five for Franklin; both durations were simply too long to bear for Michael. Any length of time was too long at this point.

That was it; they were dead, no turning back. Discovering and realizing this for himself, Michael finally channeled his inner rage, and killed as many people as he could. He was so shaken by this traumatizing event that, in fact, it took the entire group he was associated with to pull him away from the police officers he'd bludgeoned like he'd been born to do it. Finally, the entirety of the team escaped the area, the Ballas, as well as the authorities taking a huge hit in terms ranks they'd had in stock. This would go down as one of the largest busts in criminal history, no doubt resided in the minds of the escapees about this.

"THEY FUCKING KILLED THEM!"

"I know, calm down!" Lester yelled.

"_**NO, THEY FUCKING KILLED THEM! THEY MIGHT AS WELL BE IN THE GROUND RIGHT **__**NOW! THEY KILLED MY FRIENDS! MY FAMILY! THEY'RE GONE, AND THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO!"**_

"Michael, you need to calm down! Your yelling is reverberating throughout the entire goddamn van!" Paige supported.

"You didn't love them like I did! They were my best friends, my only friends, the only one's I'd ever had and ever will have!"

"I liked them too! But now is not the time for drawing wanton attention to us!" Lester said.

"I'll fucking kill you, Lester! Telling me to calm down, you should be just as mad! They were your colleagues, and now they're dead! CAN'T YOU SEE THAT?!"

"Yes, I do, Michael, I do! But I'd rather be alive to mourn their passings rather than join them!"

"Ah, fuck you! Fine, ….fine..."

The chase given by the police was bitter-sweet; most of them were just in awe. They'd never guessed that _this_ much heat would accompany the mission. They never surmised that people would actually _die_, especially those two. Percival was completely indifferent to the situation, which wasn't surprising, but he was scared of the potential retaliation that Michael may take out on him.

Michael began to gather his thoughts, returning from his rage. He was hurt, traumatized, angered. He knew that this was Percival's fault; he would've killed Tyler if he were still alive, no, he would've _tortured_ him if he was still living. It was all Percival's doing, simple as that. So, he thought to himself: all he had to do was let Percival's inception take root; if it didn't work, he'd kill him. If it did work, he'd collect the 25 million dollars he was entitled to, and do the same thing. It would be a righteous way of avenging his fallen brethren.

He began to ponder his plan even more: Trevor had sworn himself against killing, but must've killed one or two people before biting the dust, possibly even more. _Trevor violated his own rule_, something Michael had just realized and gained catharsis from. Knowing this, he felt justified in killing Percival outright. Once he got his money, he'd do away with the poisonous businessman, with a sick, almost twisted pleasure.

But, would revenge be what Michael pivoted on, even if Trevor broke his own value? He knew that his friend would still largely disapprove of what Michael resolved to do; he thought about this as well. Killing Percival wouldn't bring him peace; it would make him feel good for a few short seconds, but nothing more. In fact, killing Percival would probably sign his own death certificate, but he was already going to die. Michael, at the end of all of this, discovered that he had nothing left to live for. His kids were at college, his wife was in hiding because of the job itself; Michael would have nothing to do, nothing to oversee, nothing to die for; his friends were dead.

Life was...meaningless. Did it matter if he killed Percival or not? Both ways lead to death, one quick and potentially painless, the other slow and potentially pain_ful_, respectively. He still had his family, all of whom were intact, but they weren't his family. He loved them, in a sort of familial, biological manner, but nothing beyond that. He never felt a true emotional, sentimental connection towards them; that had already been occupied by his two deceased companions. It'd been that way for as long as Michael could subconsciously remember; nothing to live for, nothing to die for. If Michael didn't kill Percival, he'd probably kill himself out of the guilt he felt over never doing anything with his family, meaning both his friends and his biological relatives. He'd never truly formed any bonds that were of any merit, only economic bonds of emotional despair that would mature once he realized that he did love his family, both ones. He'd just never taken the time to realize or cherish those bonds. He was empty, and killing Percival wouldn't augment that. He'd already killed so many already, and then he thought to himself: this must be what Trevor pondered right before he took his oath of refusing to kill.

By this point, Michael was in the same vicinity of confirmed kills that Trevor and Franklin resided in, possibly even more, whether it was in the dream sequence or not. More killing, more gratuitous violence, wouldn't fill the hole in the heart he'd just acquired. All of this came to him, on that fateful ride to a previously designated location somewhere in Paleto Bay, a place in which they wouldn't be found, and where Percival's drugs would wear off. It would be a tad bit unrealistic that Don woke up in an area miles away from where he was before going to sleep, but that didn't matter, especially with the entire state galvanized into some form of martial law.

So, Michael decided _not_ to kill Percival, a feat of amazing emotional control, especially for him. Maybe Dr. Friedlander's therapy sessions did have a lasting effect on him, or perhaps it was his friends that had been conducting subconscious therapy through the use of friendly values and other peripherals. He was opening the door to a new segment of his life, one that wouldn't include malicious behavior, crime, or any type of killing, and what it took for this to happen was the death of two best friends. He was at the end of one road, diverging into an entirely virgin one.

Of course, this transition wouldn't be clean and secure; it would be marred with his name being put on lists, death threats at every corner. But, somehow, he would endure, he would persevere. That was what he'd done for the past fifty years of his life, possibly even more. It was over for him. He wouldn't pursue a life of crime, at least, not organized crime anymore. He knew what this meant: an entirely new alias, most likely with extensive plastic surgery involved. He knew that he was abandoning his family, but at this point, he was used to that; he was used to _losing_ one. He would start over, most likely in a new country, probably somewhere in Europe. This continent had nothing for him anymore, specifically the US. He just had to get out.

"Alright, guys. You know the drill. Go alone, get as far away from here as possible, and keep your heads down. They'll be looking for a group; good thing we had those ski-masks on..." Lester said.

"...good work, everyone. I guess we'll all see each other later, if we're not killed in the next year. Oh yeah, forgot to say, Tyler turned on us, which is why he wasn't in the van, if you didn't already know. Also, the cops know about the UD lick; I suggest leaving the state, possibly the entire country or hemisphere. Your call, folks," Michael informed.

That was a large amount of information for everyone to take in, especially all at once. That was it. They'd be collecting their money in exactly six days time, six days to survive in the sun-kissed state of San Andreas.

All in all, it went pretty well. Each member changed their alias, got a bunch of plastic surgery, and killed anyone that suspected them; Michael had to run as soon as anyone spotted _him_. Time passed, and the license was never conveyed to Merryweather; all the hell the crew had gone through was worth something, one could suppose. Each received their 25 million, and subsequently left the hemisphere. Most would still pursue a life in organized crime, aside from Michael; all of them also hoped that this swift change in location wouldn't encourage Percival to change his mind in any way. For now, the criminal underworld, specifically of San Andreas, was secure. That was the end of it.

The news stations broadcasted as much as they could that two of the deadliest criminals the US had ever known were killed in a firefight in southwest Blaine County, easing the tensions between the crime rings of Los Santos and the other county and the police departments of both cities. It stabbed at Michael as it would normally to anyone who had lost two of his closest friends; he never contacted his family ever again, and left the country. He felt like he was leaving his own planet, with what he was doing. He'd never actually been to the other side of the world, and hoped that it would at least be sentimental in some manner. He knew that his two deceased companions would've wanted that, emphatically for him. His old life was over, and his new one, the adventure he'd probably be living out for just twenty to thirty years, began. He left it behind, all of it, and could finally relax, the first true time in his life he'd actually done so.


End file.
